After Aperture
by Tib Dunncan
Summary: Nothing could ever make her forget how much she'd hated him. No amount of brain-damage could erase those terrible moments from her memory, she thought as she stood there with him - the man who fell from space. But these were new moments, just for them.
1. Drink

Chell set the bottle on the countertop. Her day had been long and made especially unpleasant by the sudden panic attack brought on by the smell of ammonia in the grocery market, that smell not so different from the unnatural sterilized smell of Aperture. Her chest had constricted and her breathing became deep and measured and quick and she was so sure she could hear the innocent, child-like "I see you," from the isle next to her. She nearly took down three shelves trying to crush the imaginary turret without the help of the Aperture Science Handheld Dual Portal Gun, and the knot of embarrassment and anxiety still resided in her chest. The deep red liquid poured gracefully from the slim glass bottle. She hadn't truly intended to ever drink it – she'd found it in the cellar when they'd moved into the quickly abandoned home – but some days, she decided, it was more than called for.

It wasn't anything fancy. A generous amount of wine in a red plastic cup, to calm her nerves and maybe even help her to fall asleep that night – God knew she would lie awake for hours after one of those episodes. She took a sip of the wine, almost unpleasantly strong and biting, and threw open the front screen door to sit under the night sky. The porch light was off, which was why she didn't notice Wheatley at first. When she did, it sent a jolt through her. She hadn't even heard him leave. She sat down next to him, in turn startling him, though he settled down easily enough. He shrugged his jacket a little closer as a crisp wind blew across the pair. It was summer, and the air was warm, a pleasant breeze that rustled the miles of wheat that stretched before the tiny home like a golden ocean, constantly moving and _alive_, so unlike how things were always moving back at the facility. This was natural; _right_, not cold and mechanical like the way the walls moved, or the short, jerky movements of the turrets, who's heads twitched like birds' at the slightest sound.

This was organic, real, though the android still seemed to have difficulty grasping that concept. Having spent his entire artificial life in the facility under fluorescent lights and temperature-regulated atmosphere, he found it so unnerving that things actually moved on their own, without any lunatic woman bending them to her will. He relaxed a little when the wind died down, grip loosening on the brown fabric that he relied on to survive in such a volatile environment. He found it maddening at first, because he'd come from such a _constant_ environment, to be dropped into the middle of a place where the sky could never make up its mind about whether it wanted clouds or not, or – God forbid – rain. Rain was the worst, and he refused to go anywhere near the doors or windows in the house when the sky decided it wanted to try to short circuit him. But tonight wasn't one of those terrifying night when the entire earth seemed to shake from some mad power that reminded him so much of _Her_ fury and the darkness was lit up in a fantastic and terrible surge of electricity. Tonight was cold and crisp and clear and he could still see the stars and the tiny sliver or moon that provided just enough light to their small wooden porch. Enough light so that, when he looked at Chell, he could see her looking up at the stars too. They'd both been so close to the stars, once. Granted, the stars they saw in the night sky were literally _millions_ and _millions_ of miles outside of the very _edge_ of the solar system, but in any case, they had been far too close to enjoy them as peacefully as they could here on Earth.

"They're so beautiful from a safe distance, aren't they?" she asked, giving a voice to his thoughts.

That was another thing he was still getting used to. Her voice, withheld for so long during her stay in that madhouse he once called home, he hadn't thought it even existed. But there it was, clear as the sky that stretched forever before them, dipping down to meet the horizon. He nodded sagely, though everything he had told him he would never love the night sky like he hoped he would, back in the days when he dreamed of escaping Aperture. They were too familiar, and they brought back memories he'd tried _so hard_ to delete from his hard drive.

With another curious glance over to his friend, he spied the red plastic cup that she held between her knees. "What's there, luv?" he asked, gesturing to the odd drink. He honestly hadn't seen anything like it before. It was thick and dark and gave off such a pungent odor, he found himself recoiling slightly as the breeze wafted it in his direction. Whatever it was, it was highly unpleasant, though that didn't seem to register with Chell.

She shrugged off his question. "Cup of wine. Found a bottle in the cellar yesterday." Her voice was slow and soft, hard and breathy at the same time, and he felt he would never get used to it.

"Wine. I know about that. In fact, I think I have an information file on it. Should be in here somewhere…" his voice trailed off as he concentrated on digging through the numerous information files stored in his system. "Alcohol! The engineers were, ah, very fond of that, I recall. Never understood it, though, with you humans. Stuff is lethal, easy enough to understand. Mess you up right, won't it?" he peered into the cup curiously, nervously wondering if Chell had damaged herself with it.

She shook her head, the wine beginning to mellow her out. She took another swig from the cup. "Frankly, it's worth it." She said. "You'd think after two years outside of that Hell, I would stop hallucinating."

"Must be the brain damage," he said under his breath, though it was intended for her to hear, as it was a bit of a joke. He knew she would get like this at times, mentally beating herself up for not being able to let go of her time at Aperture as if it had been a tea party. He always tried to cheer her up as much as he could, but it seemed like everything he said to her was funnier in his head. He received no response, no soft chuckle or even a smile from her; she only took another sip from the cup. He drew he knees closer to his chest, which wasn't a difficult task, given how absurdly _long_ they were. His whole body was absurd. Excessive limbs and a height that, he imagined, would be considered monstrous among other humans, if they ever encountered any. He was a towering six foot seven inches and was constantly looking down on his companion, in a strictly figurative sense, of course, since he thought the world of Chell. "I just don't get it." He reasserted. "If you _know_ it damages your system, why consume it? That's like me saying I'd fancy a nighttime walk in one of those loud rain storms that happen out here."

Chell shook her head again. Concepts like wine had been ingrained in Human culture since saner, ancient times. How was she supposed to explain it to him? She sipped her drink pensively and stared up at the stars. The waving wheat in front of her brought the nostalgia of her first day above the surface, her first day of freedom from Aperture. He cheeks were slightly flushed from the wine. The words tumbled out before she even knew she'd said them. "It's sort of the like the Euphoric Solution."

She stopped. The knot in her chest returned, immediately sobering her from her slight tipsy. Those words tasted like pure poison, and she could feel them carving a hallow inside her chest as she remembered things best left forgotten. She sloshed the remainder of her drink – about half the cup – around uncertainly. The time she had spent in Aperture had scarred her deeply, but she managed, day by day, and things became easier over time. But Wheatley… He told her that he was right as rain, it was all in the past, but she could still see it in him, the way he would come out on nights like tonight and stare at the stars, the way he was so very jumpy when he talked to her, too eager to please. Chell knew that he remembered everything just as painfully as she did. She looked sheepishly up at her friend.

His eyes were closed, a slight crease between his brow and his hands clenched on the hem of his jacket. The synthetic skin of his knuckles was white with tension and a higher-pressure grip than anything any human could ever dream to possess. His lips traced unintelligible words, silently, but she had seen him do this enough times to know that he was attempting another memory dump. It never worked, but he had always been blindly optimistic and, frankly, desperate enough to need the optimism.

She raised the cup to her lips again, feeling guilty for causing his android body's interpretation of a panic attack and wanting to explain to him how completely _different_ the two were. It had been a poor analogy. All she had meant was that the depressant qualities of alcohol in the human body produce a slight giddiness, enough to ease someone of the day's tensions. It, in comparison, really wasn't _anything_ like the Solution…

Her mind stopped the thought, her body froze mid sip.

That wasn't true.

It was the same, in all its practicality, as the Euphoric Solution. Both created a chemical reaction in the body – albeit, hers a human body – to promote feelings of bliss. The wine _did_ relax her, but she knew it was only short lived. The knot in her chest returned not long after her drink, leaving a longing for the almost carefree serenity she had felt while tipsy. She had spent since she could remember in a state of panic and hyperarousal, and she found herself craving that _feeling._ Her chest tightened in a slight fear; he was just as frightened now as she had been when he had turned on her. It was possible to build an addiction to alcohol, just as Wheatley had to the Solution, and over time, become numb to its effects. It wasn't even a matter of mental capacity, it was proven. And after that point, what would stand between you and that _feeling_?

That sickeningly _perfect_ feeling.

Wheatley remembered it all too well and imagined, only briefly, that he could still feel the burning itch in the back of his systems as he recalled how bloody happy he'd been. The files he had accessed told him of something called alcoholism, an addiction to the feeling that the substance would produce. It was so close to him, that overpowering addiction, the desperate need to _feel good_, so desperate that you would do anything, not thinking straight, anything that might make you feel _better._

Murder wasn't out of the question.

And there she was, sitting right next to him, a sweetly painful reminder of just how deep he'd been pulled under, that he had actively tried to murder the one sentient being who hadn't patronized him, who had treated him with respect, who had been his _friend._

She lowered the cup, resting it on her knee as she looked at him again. He was trembling, curled in on himself and hardly even producing real words anymore. His eyes were screwed tighter and his fingers twitched as he let go of his jacket and ran a shaky hand through his honey colored hair and over his forehead, knocking his glasses slightly askew.

She reached up and caught his hand as he made to grab at his jacket again. His eyes flew open in shock at the unexpected contact, immediately looking away from her upturned face. His lips still traced the useless attempts for the memory dump, but slower, less frantic, and as his gaze came to rest on the hem of the jacket he was twisting between his fingers, she smiled gently at him and lifted the cup for him to see. He recoiled, shying away from the ghost of that gnawing, burning itch that had driven him to insanity once upon a time. He looked at her in terrified wonder, half begging her not to drink any more of that poison, half begging her to keep it as far away from him as possible.

With a quick movement of the wrist, Chell tossed the contents of the cup, the wine soaring through the air, collected in little globules like a blood red Conversion Gel, across the porch and into a small patch of grass right before the wheat with a satisfying _plap!_

Wheatley's body relaxed when she placed the cup at her feet and attached herself to his arm, scooting closer and rubbing his shoulder in small circles, a reassuring gesture that he had often shown to her, on those nights where their memories got the better of them.

After a moment, his quiet mutterings had ceased, and the two mused together over thoughts of the future, the endless possibilities, like the endless stars that twinkled against an inky sky, like the endless miles of wheat with a small house sitting in the middle, with an odd pair sitting on the porch, and a red cup sitting, forgotten, at their feet.


	2. For Science

Chell sat the book in her lap. Her shoulders were hunched forward and a slight crease had formed on her brow. It was late at night – she wasn't sure how late, as the room lacked a clock – and the light of the numerous candles strategically positioned around her bed were simultaneously keeping her wide awake with their warm light and lulling her to sleep with the thick smoke that filled the tiny bedroom.

It had taken her months to allow the candles to burn, the stiff, sweet scent reminding her to much of the neurotoxin that had almost taken her life on several different occasions. It was a slow, entirely uphill battle, purging herself of any remaining fear and learning how to live normally again; a battle that Wheatley had often suffered the brunt of. The flames were a subconscious reminder of that, and how she had knocked him flat on his back in a mad rush to put out the first candle he lit and air out the room.

She had elbowed him in the chest and, while the contact had been brief (He had fallen back, startled) the abrupt contact with his metal components has left an impressive bruise and the inability to bend her arm for a full day afterwards. A painful reminder that, as much as he seemed it, he wasn't human.

But as she refocused her attention on the book in her lap, she found herself recanting that last statement. He was, for all his intents and purposes, entirely human. The book was proof.

* * *

><p>It had been last week that she and Wheatley had went out scavenging together – a rare occurrence that was permitted only by fair weather. He'd come back after a good twenty minutes with absolutely nothing, which was a shock. Any other excursion they had together, he ended up bringing home scores of trinkets, things that had intrigued him. Chell was secretly grateful that he had such a child-like wonder at the simplest things. Before he had come to live with her, the house had been impersonal, completely barren and <em>very<em> Chell – she only kept what she needed to survive. Now that he'd been with her for almost a year, the house was cluttered, every shelf and cabinet proudly displaying some discovery of his or another. This world was entirely new to him, and he was always excited to show her what he'd found.

But the book was different.

He had tried to hide it from her – arms folded neatly behind his back, holding it in place, safe from her sight – but she was a bit cleverer than that.

"What do you have?" she asked, picking up a small tin tea kettle. The handle was cracked and the body slightly dented, but it would work, which was what was important to her.

"Nothing," was his reply, which immediately made her look up from the forlorn kettle. What a liar.

She slowly placed the appliance in the old, beat up shopping wagon she used for big hauls to and from town and took two deliberate steps toward him. In turn, he reversed, a nervous smile spreading on his face. "Really, it's nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. If it were something, I'd tell you, wouldn't I?"

He was backing away from her as fast as she was moving toward him. Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks, causing him to stumble backwards to a slow stop.

Chell's eyes widened, her gaze fixed on a point over Wheatley's shoulder. He immediately became jittery at her horrified expression. "What's the matter, luv?" he asked, the object still clasped securely behind his back.

"Bird!" she pointed behind him and put on her best 'horrified out of my wits' face.

The effect was instant: he dropped the object – a book – and threw his hands protectively over his head, ducking and looking wildly around for the offender. "Where! Where!"

Chell dipped down and picked the book out of the dirt, before he could realize what had just happened. It just so chanced that, though he had been half-hunched over in defense against the bird, he managed to see her reach for it out of the corner of his eye.

He lunged for it, but was several seconds too late. By the time he came to a rest in the dirt, she had already stood and turned the book right side up.

Wheatley stood, shuffling nervously as she examined the book. The item itself was extremely thick, and a hardcover to boot. The pages were thin and glossy. But it was the front cover that made him cringe as she looked at it. It was a red and green, faded with age, with once-bright white announcing the subject matter. It was a text book, a reminder of a school system that no longer existed. Her fingers brushed over the block letter.

Science.

Something inside of the android stopped working momentarily as he saw a shadow pass over her face, darker than any of those ominously huge rain clouds that threaten to electrocute him into oblivion. He was certain that she was going to throw the bloody thing at him. His circuits ran cold as he thought of all the possible things she was going to do to him for trying to invite her nightmares right back into the house. Judging by the way she looked at the book, it was an act of treason that could possibly put them back on square one of 'the trust game.'

Her eyes lifted from the book to stare curiously at him, her eyes roaming his features. She held the book open and just stared at him. It was ridiculously nerve-wracking, Wheatley decided, to be stared down by the woman you knew could shut you off at a moment's notice if she needed to. He glanced nervously between the book and the tips of his boots. He fidgeted incessantly, hands wringing together.

She knew why he wanted the book – he would argue it was because he enjoyed reading; she knew he had trouble reading simple sentences. – It was because he had his freedom. Free of everything that had ever happened to him, between them. Free of Aperture and GLaDOS and free to live in this impossibly vast world. Free to live in a world that he knew absolutely nothing about. He'd spent his entire life underground, in that asylum of a laboratory, before being forcibly torn from Science, which was everything he knew.

He was homesick. So, of course he would attach himself to something as simple as an old class book. Of course he had the _right_ to.

She felt her tensed muscles relax slightly at this. She wasn't mad; she didn't hate him.

She hated science.

But this book… She leafed through the pages. The book was completely devoid of any mention of homicidal computers or neurotoxin or tests or cake.

This book outlined beautiful things, like life and growth and _real_ things. The earth, the trees, the rain…

Chell closed the book with a bang that made her companion jump. With a smile, she handed it back to him. "You can put it in the cart, if you want." She offered.

He chose to clutch it to his chest, instead, as they made their way home.

* * *

><p>"Oi."<p>

Chell looked up at the doorway, which was now being occupied by a lanky British android who was braced up against the woodwork with an unspeakably panicked look in his eyes. "Where'd you put my charging cable? I've been looking for bloody _hours_ and I can't find it anywhere."

She smiled and set the book aside, reaching down to the side of the bed and pulling out one of the drawers in the nightstand. There was only one item stored in the drawer – a tick, long black cable that was curled neatly into little ringlets stacked upon one another. She plucked it out of its place and held it out for him as he came up to her. He grabbed the wire and was about to take off to charge, when his eye caught the book. A tight smile spread across his lips as he bid her goodnight, blowing out the candles and using his flashlight to get back to his bedroom.


	3. Kill the Messenger

Chell walked through the front doors of the house, tossing the heavy duty work gloves onto the kitchen counter. She peeked momentarily into the living room to see Wheatley with his back to her so that she could see the thick black chord protruding from the back of his neck and snaking its way over to the wall, where the plug was secured in the electrical socket. He was curled up on the couch, knees almost to his chin and his hands in loose fists in front of his face, glasses resting on the table in the middle of the living room.

Wheatley hated sleeping. He's lamented to her that it was too much like being shut down. They'd found a compatible power chord in an old hardware store and tested it out that very same night. Immediately upon reawakening, he'd shied away from the unit, muttering to her how it seemed like nothing existed while he was hooked up. All his senses had been cut off and he couldn't so much as twitch a finger while he slept.

Of course, it wasn't a true sleep – it was a pre-programmed feature that shut down all his functions to ensure there was no problem while he was recharging, no complications between programs or manual errors from him moving around too much and breaking the wire off in his port. It was a very convincing act though, and she often found herself walking on eggshells so she wouldn't wake him, despite the fact that the only way to do so would be to disconnect him from the unit.

It usually took him a good five hours to recharge completely, and because the charger wasn't Aperture technology, he could only run for a week on that alone. Chell was surprised – though she figured at this point, she shouldn't have been – at how human his charging system was. On the first three days after a full charge, Wheatley was as chipper and lively as ever, chattering about and functioning well. By the fifth day, she could see a noticeable decrease in how much he talked, and that his eyes glowed a slightly less intense blue. On the sixth day, he began losing focus and slowing down, often repeating himself several times in the space of an hour, having forgotten that he'd asked in the first place. What scared him the most was the spaces of time on the sixth days that he couldn't remember anything at all. Early onset of involuntary shutdown, he'd called it.

On the seventh day…

Chell pursed her lips as she put the bread pan in the oven. They didn't know what he was like on the seventh day, but knowing that his systems preformed so poorly on the sixth day didn't particularly make her want to find out. Wheatley's disapproval of recharging made this a difficult sentiment to uphold. She often had to fight to get him to lie down and let her plug him in. Though, today, she thought happily, he seemed to have made the decision on his own. As silly as it might have sounded, that was a milestone for him.

She bent down, opening the oven and checking the bread. She had one arm up to the elbow in the oven, and almost burnt herself as he screamed. It was brief but deep, loud, and utterly terrified. She stumbled back to land painfully on her tailbone, kicking the oven shut and scrambling around to the living room.

Perhaps in his earlier days on the surface, she would have dismissed it. He was always screaming, then. He screamed at moths, he screamed at lizards, he screamed at almost any forlorn little critter that had wandered obliviously into their home. Sometimes he screamed at inanimate objects. The toaster; the microwave, when it worked. The rain hitting the roof. Chell couldn't count how many times she'd had to reassure him that the roof was in fact there to keep the rain out and that it was doing its job very well – and when they had gotten a leak after two weeks of _nonstop rain_, she hadn't heard the end of it.

But he was much better, now. He had grown more accustomed to the surface, and slowly learned that not _everything_ was out to get him. He was still jittery when it rained, but that was entirely understandable for him, being able to easily short circuit. Whenever any little animal found its way into the house, he gently shooed it out, after he decided whether or not it would attack him. Chell was worried now that he'd screamed like that for the first time in months. He hadn't even screamed like that when he was dive bombed by a family of birds that had taken up residence on their roof. She turned the corner into the living room.

He was lying peacefully on the couch.

She stood there with a towel in one hand, rubbing the base of her spine and staring confusedly at his 'sleeping' form. What was he screaming ab—?

He did it again, his voice resonating off the walls of the small room as he flipped completely over to face her, falling off of the couch and twisting the chord around his neck in the process.

Chell sprang into action as he shuddered on the floor, her fingers quick to disentangle the rubbery wire. Her heart raced for an unusual reason. She was not so much concerned about him suffocating – Strictly speaking, he didn't need air. His breathing was artificial and merely functioned as an internal fan to cool him down in case he over exerted himself. As he was 'sleeping,' he wasn't doing very much, and a temporary hindering of the fan would not hurt him. But the chord they'd salvaged was already weak and with a force like that he was exerting as he twisted about helplessly asleep, he could very easily snap it in two. Best case scenario, the wire breaks and they find a new one – and even that wasn't a promise. Finding this one had been a miracle. Worst case scenario, the wire itself survives, but the lead bit at the end snaps off, becoming permanently lodged in the back of Wheatley's neck. If that happened, he would never wake up.

Once upon a time, she would have stood there and watched him panic himself to a metaphorical death. But things were so different now that, despite having lived for two years on her own, she didn't want to imagine life without him, her friend.

She sat heavily on his chest as he screamed a third time, his features contorted in agonizing terror before he went limp again. She seized the opportunity and slid off, flipping him onto his side. Her thin fingers grasped at the base of the lead and tugged, feeling the device slide out of place with a series of clicks. She gently set the wire aside and moved the coffee table out of the way, watching him the whole time. His breathing had picked up, his chest rising and falling rapidly and she frowned. He was beginning to overheat. He wasn't even doing anything!

Still on his side, he gave a shuddering sob.

The whirring from his chest slowed, not as loud now as he began waking up.

He started shuffling and eventually was able to prop himself up on the floor, still shaking.

She placed a hand between his shoulder blades, letting him know she was there, sitting cross legged right next to him. At the same moment, the timer went off on the oven. Having come to in such a confused daze, she wasn't sure which one he flinched at, the noise or her touch. "What happened?" she asked, quietly.

He shook his head, trying to quell the fear that surged through his circuits. "I-I don't… _know_." He said, shakily, allowing himself to be pulled to a sitting position. "I was… I wasn't here. I was back there. We were f-fighting again." He tripped over the word, the memory. Silently, she recalled the last time they fought. She'd attached three cores to him to initiate a core transfer. She'd hit him with a round of miniature explosives each time. Each time, he screamed in pain. "And then, there was just… space." He leaned back into the couch. "I was in space again, and I looked down at the Earth, big great blue and white and green ball, it was, and I said, 'I miss it.' I'd been up there for bloody _ages_. And not the ages I'd been up there before I crashed. Longer. So much longer. Lost for good." He said quietly.

She smoothed down his hair, which was sticking every which way from the imaginary struggle and still singed from reentry – proof that whatever he'd experienced had been a fabrication. Everything about him was artificial – hair, skin, eyes, breath – but she was certain he was the most genuine person she would ever meet. He was frightened because he didn't understand. And maybe she didn't really, either. She was the last to claim to know about how he works. But educating him came second to calming him, so she took the gamble and applied what she knew.

"You're safe." She said, softly. "It was just a dream."

He shook his head again. "I- I can't. I'm not… I'm still a robot, luv." He shoved the glasses roughly onto his face when she handed them to him, blinking everything back into focus. "I've never done that before, and I've charged loads of times."

She thought for a moment. "Something must not have worked right when you plugged yourself in. Maybe it opened access to your memory bank while you were charging."

"I don't know." He said, hugging his knees. "But I don't like it." He looked sideways at her. "I think I'll let you plug me in from now on."


	4. Lost and Found

It was a makeshift water pump – she'd made it herself last spring; it was rickety and sometimes the wood pump left little splinters in her fingers, but it was a reliable water source. Perhaps it wasn't the cleanest water, but that's what the water filter at home was for. The only thing about the pump she disliked was how utterly far away from home it was. It was in the middle of the forest that was on the north side of the wheat field, further away from Aperture that even her home was.

The wood joints groaned under her fingers with every pump. Nothing came out at first, but this wasn't unusual. It had made her nervous at first. She had spent time and valuable resources on building the pump because she had been so _sure_ there had been water beneath some ten odd feet of dirt. She'd pumped once, twice, thrice…

The eighth time's the charm, she learned, as an unsteady stream of brown liquid spilled forth into the water pail. This water looked a lot less like water and a lot more like mud, but she'd learned to pump the dirt out of the nozzle before she began collecting water.

Pump, heave. Pump, heave. Pump – new pail.

This was the pattern she adopted, and it was never broken. Once, it had started raining, and though her clothes had soaked through and her hair had matted to her forehead, she didn't stop. It was a warm summer afternoon, she wasn't at risk of catching cold, and the rain filled an extra bucket with clean water without her even having to do anything.

This happened at least once a month, depending on how much water she brought back in one run. She was out there again, for the second time that month which was rather unusual, working the pump as fast as she could as the sun was beginning to paint the sky a spectacularly fiery orange mottled with pink. Stars began twinkling against ink as she loaded the last water pail into her battered shopping cart.

Nothing ever broke her routine… but once.

The sound of snapping tree branches, the ear-splitting crash and the smell of hot dirt and ozone had emanated from a neighboring part of the woods. She needed to know. Not out of curiosity, but out of fear. This was _her_ home. Whatever had happened over yonder, it had been _hot_. The haze rippling the tops of the trees not far off was enough to tell her that. As far as she could tell, there was no smoke or fire, but damned if she was going to let it burn her only home down. Abandoning the pump, she picked up the last bucket, which was a little more than half full and set off in the direction of the sudden heat wave.

She walked for about five minutes, following her nose and her instinct before she found the source. Whatever it was had left a monumental crater in the ground, and it looked like it had skid a couple of feet before coming to a stop. The heat emanating from the crater had subsided, but the smell of ozone was still bitter and strong. She peered over the edge of the crater and found herself looking at the lanky form of a man. She couldn't see his face, but she didn't need to. The tattered Aperture logo on his back was more than enough identification for her.

Wheatley.

Some part of her screamed to turn around and go home, maybe take the pail of that muddy water and dump it over him for good measure. But the longer she looked at him lying in that ditch, the more she found she couldn't bring herself to do it.

He'd once been a corrupt, omnipotent monster that had repeatedly tried to kill her. He'd tried to crush her with 'mashy-spike-plates' and suffocate her with neurotoxin. He'd tried to blow her up and leave her in the void of space. He'd thrown her into hell and dragged her back only to force her to test for him. For Science – the very thing they'd tried to escape together.

But he, at some point, had also been her friend. He'd pulled her from the dying Cryogenic Relaxation Annex, and he'd offered her freedom. He saved her life.

She looked down at the android and sighed, sliding down the wall of dirt to his side. He didn't deserve this, she told herself. He deserved to be rained on. Hard. But even as those thoughts passed, she found herself pitying him.

It was a pathetic sight. He was lying on his stomach with his face ground into the dirt, cracked glasses a foot or two away from him. His jumpsuit was tattered and, in some places – his arms, around his neckline, and patches on his sides – clearly missing, revealing damaged synthetic skin. His hair –indeed, every inch of him – was covered in a fine layer of soot and singe. It was obvious that he'd caught fire during reentry. Chell found GLaDOS's voice playing in her head: "All Aperture technology remains safely operational up to four thousand degrees Kelvin." Was it too much to hope that the heat of breaking through the earth's atmosphere didn't exceed his limits?

She shook the thought from her head, reminding herself that she didn't truly _care_ if he was alive or not.

His limbs were bent at odd angles and as she moved around to examine his face more closely, she saw a fine bolt of electricity surge through him. He may have been badly damaged and unconscious, but he sure as hell felt the malfunction. His whole body convulsed and he screamed, a bloodcurdling noise that made the crows in the surrounding trees take to the skies.

Well. He was definitely alive. There's one mystery solved.

Chell found that her lips had formed a bittersweet smile at the memory, which she quickly dropped.

His body had gone limp now. He was completely out of it and utterly helpless. As the moment presented itself to her, she realized that there was nothing stopping her from unzipping the back of his jumpsuit and shutting him down for good. She'd gotten a glance at the mechanical side of him once before, back in the days when they had trusted each other. It was brief, as he'd said it was embarrassing to have all his wires and buttons exposed like that. But she'd clearly seen the insignia that looked like a hybrid of a commonplace power button and the Aperture Science logo that haunted her dreams. She knelt down and her fingers traced the exact spot on his back where the button protruded.

Chell looked up at the hoot of a night bird. It was almost pitch black out, and more stars had settle themselves against the inky sky. She looked back at Wheatley, his broken form, his sleeping face. She had to make a decision or there was the possibility that they'd both die out there. Nights were ferociously cold here, even in the summer, and she still had her water to haul back to her house.

After a rare moment of hesitation, she took his glasses and slung his arm over her shoulders, hauling him up. It wasn't easy, putting a limp, six foot seven man on your back piggy-back style. His arms dangled over her shoulders and the tips of his boots occasionally caught the ground, stalling them. But she'd never been one to give up on something, even if it was hard.

She scrambled her way out of the ditch and back to the water pump, which she was beyond relieved she was able to find in the dark. She braced herself up against the wagon and began pushing it home, occasionally having to reposition Wheatley to keep him from tumbling backwards and taking them both down.

Not even the light of the moon came to her aid that night, it was just her and the stars, and she couldn't say she minded. The moon was an unpleasant reminder of things she'd rather forget, and the two hundred and three pound man on her back was enough of that. The stars provided plenty of light to find the necessary path that she'd worn into the dirt and wheat.

She was glad she'd had enough foresight to leave the tiny porch light on before she'd left, or finding the house at all might have been out of the question.

Wheatley, that night, was a cacophony of whirrs and beeps and clicks as his systems tried to repair themselves. She watched him closely from across the living room as he rebooted, ready to douse him with water the moment he turned on her again.

He sat up groggily and buried his face in his hands, groaning in evident pain. Every so often he'd give a slight twitch in some part of his body. He _was_ badly damaged and not even his internal maintenance system could fix it all. Chell felt slight guilt at this – self defense, accident or intentional, she was the one who had dealt him so many blows, and she was the one who had watched him be sucked into space.

She tapped him on the shoulder and handed him his glasses. He took them with a muttered thanks and made to put them back on. Before he had them on the bridge of his nose, he gave another violent twitch, causing him to drop them to the floor. Chell moved closer and picked them up for him, handing them back again. He didn't take them. He'd raised his eyes to bend down and pick them up himself, but stopped when he saw her. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly and she merely sat at his feet waiting for him to collect himself. For once in his artificial life, he was speechless.

His eyes flickered bright blue, in between 'alive and well' and 'fatally wounded.'

Chell stood, having made a decision and setting the glasses back on the small coffee table in front of him. Yes, he'd stabbed her in the back – almost literally. But he _was_ helpless. Wheatley flinched as she moved closer to him. He'd prepared some speech – an endless apology, during his time in the exile of Space, but for all the world he couldn't bring himself to synthesize one syllable under her glare. He shied away from her, expecting pain. He knew he deserved it. He knew he deserved whatever she was going to do to him. Shut him down, or bring him back to _Her_, or whatever she had in mind.

Chell didn't touch him, she didn't attract his attention in any way. He was still looking away from her when she said it. When she did, his eyes went wide behind spider-webbed lenses and he looked up at her in shock, but she was already across the room, making her way up the stairs to her bedroom.

"I'll go into town tomorrow and bring back parts. We'll get you fixed."


	5. Dead

The rain fell hard that day, the wheat stalks bending over under the weight of the water. It was obvious that the weather was terrible, and he was in a bit of an awed confusion as he realized that _she went out in that for him._ She'd kept her word and had woken early the next morning to head into town. She said she would bring back all sorts of odds and ends and they'd make due with what they could and she would put him back in working order.

She came back that afternoon, soaked to the bone and arms full of lumpy tarp. Of course, it was what was under the tarp that he knew would possibly save his life. As the day progressed, he'd felt more and more broken. Something rattled here, something hurt there, and he constantly felt increasingly tired, and every so often, he thought he saw a flashing red battery icon in the corner of his vision.

She unloaded the tarp and he found himself staring at an assortment of odds and ends that he didn't know how they were ever going to help him. He recognized a few things. There was a radio, a roll of electrical tape, a pair of ominous looking pliers and a screwdriver, a soundboard and a box of fuses, among other things, most of which were extremely technical looking. His eyes wandered to a length of black wire that attached to a large black box and then tapered off into a plug.

"I got a look at your port last night," she explained. "And, from what you told me, your internal clock is broken." At this, he nodded in agreement. "You've been in orbit for two years. It's a miracle you're still running at all. This plug should be compatible."

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" he said, feigning cheerfulness. In truth, he was a nervous wreck, and he wasn't doing a stellar job of hiding it. "No use fixing me up if my battery's just going to die."

"If I plug you in now, without fixing you," she said, looking him in the eye, "It will short circuit your whole system. I'll make it quick. Sit down." She pointed to the couch and he obeyed.

She shifted through the pile of electronics and found one that she felt was suitable: an awkward lump of metal that she tore apart. Wheatley had to look away. He understood that it wasn't sentient, like he was, but the sight of her ripping out its hardware, its wires; the very same material that was inside of him, it was frightening and nauseating and psychopathic all at once.

He didn't know if he trusted her or not. He didn't know if she knew anything about electronics, let alone advanced android AI's. He didn't know, if she _did_ know what she was doing, if she was going to kill him. Though, if that were the case, she could have very well just left him to run out of battery. That being said, he _did_ know that, without her, he was going to die. He didn't have anything to lose.

"Will you stay still?" she asked gruffly, halfway through replacing a wire that gave him vision.

"S-sorry. It's just… awfully frightening, not being able to see anything, you back there, poking about in my circuitry…"

"I'm not going to do anything. But I can't – nnn – fix you if you don't – stay – still!" she grabbed his shoulder and forced him to a sitting position and he nearly fell back on top of her.

"Sorry!" he cried, trying to right himself. "It's just, after everything that happened… If -" he gave a nervous chuckle, "If I were in your position, I mean, I would certainly shut _you_ off."

"I know." She said darkly.

With a _pop_! Wheatley's vision came violently back on, blinding him with sudden light.

He gave a twitch and stiffened. "I – I didn't mean it like that. I only meant -"

"I know what you meant." She said. "Contrary to what you think, I'm _not_ a monster."

"No, no, you don't understand! If I were you, I'd want me shut off. I mean, yes, you did some terrible things, back there but – oh, no. No, I'm -"

Chell stopped, zipping up the android's jumpsuit.

"W-w-wait! Where are you going? I thought you were going to fix me!"

"You're fine for now, we'll test the chord in the morning." She said. Wheatley sat dumbfounded on the couch and watched her climb the stairs.

He sat there, staring after her in horror at his own stupid mouth. When he finally heard the door upstairs close with a ferocious bang, he buried his face in his hands.

Wheatley trembled as he pushed her bedroom door open. She was sitting on the bed, a small book in her hands. She looked up and saw him, immediately setting the book down and glaring up at him. She gave him her full attention, never daring to look away or turn her back for a fraction of a second. He waved half heartedly and moved towards her, noticing that she tensed when he did. He spread his palms in front of his chest. "N-no worries. I'm…I'm not going to hurt you. Couldn't if I _wanted_ to, which I don't. No neurotoxin, no mashy-spike-plates, not even so much as a knife! As – as a matter of fact, I think you're going to… like what I have to say." She could hear his voice crack and her shoulders tightened. He was scared.

She crawled forward to meet him at the end of the bed. He sat and clasped his fidgeting hands in his lap, staring at them intently and never looking up at her. "I know that you think I'm a monster; that I'm just a… a mess of faulty wiring." He choked, recalling the scientists who had worked at Aperture all those eternities ago. "I saw that look, when you came back this morning. It was the look you used to give _Her_. Scary, that. But I don't blame you. In your position, it makes sense, and… I know you want me, ah, gone. I won't fight."

Chell was taken aback at this. Aperture Personality Constructs were programmed with an extreme fear of death – or at least, he was. That's how the Engineers had gotten him to stay in line. Disengagement from the management rail meant death, as did the use of most of his standard-issue equipment. Now, to see him offering her his life was more than a bit of a shock.

That's not to say that he wasn't frightened. She could see it in his face, his movements. She frowned, pulling the zipper of his jumpsuit down, revealing the complex interface and the one glorified kill switch at the top of it all. It was a small circular button that protruded slightly from his back. All she would have to do is depress it, let it click…

Wheatley flinched as he felt her fingers on his back, flipping up the panel that covered the switch, and interjected. "Actually -" he didn't move, though his hands were clasped tighter in his lap. "Before you do, I – I didn't get the chance to say it, earlier, and I don't want to go out without saying it. I'm… I'm _so_ sorry. Sorry doesn't even begin to _cover_ it. I – I never wanted…" he wiped absently at his face. "I tried to _kill_ you, and all you'd ever done was tried to _help me_. I… _do_ understand that, now. Everything I said to you earlier and back at the facility. It was all backwards. _I_ was the monster, not you, and… I'm sorry. Truly."

Chell sat quietly through it all. When he was done, her finger still hovered over the kill switch on his back. He didn't run, he didn't fight. It was almost frightening, such a sharp contrast to the two years of anger and hatred that she'd _thought_ she'd felt. It was the oddest sensation, tears trickling down her cheeks at the thought of what he was willing to let her do to him. Something that, not too long ago, she would have done without a second thought. When she had left the facility, she had felt betrayed and hurt and she'd wanted to hurt him. When she'd seen him lying in that ditch, clearly alive, she knew the moment she made that split-second hesitation that she didn't want him dead. She wanted him back. She wanted _her_ Wheatley and all his preprogrammed idiocy and his waterfall ramblings.

Seconds ticked by on the clock in the hall. The only noise was the erratic whirring of the android's CPU. She wiped her runaway tears and laid her cheek against his back, her palm flat against his shoulder blade. She'd closed the flap, and he'd felt it. "You… You have to press it, it's not going to just-" she stopped him, shaking her head lightly against him.

"We did it," she said softly, her voice edged with an almost hysterical glee.

"S-sorry. Did what, exactly?"

"We're free. The both of us, together. We finally did it. We escaped."

Her arms wrapped around his middle and in that moment, with that one word, 'we', all the fear in his chest – fear of her and of mechanical murder – died.


	6. What Doesn't Kill You

She took care of him. Sure, it was slow going, and things hurt now and then, but she followed through and she'd fixed him, which was more than he could say for many of Aperture's old employees, who had often left him broken, untended to, for weeks. He hadn't expected nearly this much. Very little, actually. It took about three months for her to get him back in tip-top shape, a feat of miracles, really, when you consider that, one, she didn't seem to have any formal training in advanced robotics and Artificial Intelligence and, two, she had only who-knows-how-old toasters and spare parts to fix him with. It was quite amazing, really, and he told her that every chance he got, perpetually thanking her for not leaving him in the rain because, he knew, it would have been _really_ easy to do that and he _promises_ he's not going to make her regret helping him.

But once, they sat on the couch together, Chell working at the nape of his neck, fixing some wires that he'd said had felt out of place. He'd learned to sit quietly as she worked, or else something went wrong and she'd have to start over again and they'd be there all night. She'd told him it wouldn't take but twenty minutes for her to put them back into place, as she had been working on him for some time and had gotten quite good at small repairs like these. He felt the small plate snap back into place as she closed him up, usually a good sign that she was finished.

She gathered her tools and the excess wires and brought them into the kitchen, where she had everything for repairs organized in sets of tiny drawers that she kept on the counter.

Wheatley was still sitting on the couch when she walked back in. He'd shrugged on his shirt – which he'd abandoned his battered Aperture jumpsuit for, so that he wouldn't overheat because of inconsistencies in the temperature – poking his head through the neck hole and adjusting his glasses to see her properly before she spoke.

"Done."

"I noticed, luv, thank you. Feels a million times better."

"No." she said curtly, "I mean, _Done._ You're done. Fixed."

He stared blankly at her, a small empty feeling developing in his chest and his head swimming. Had it really happened so fast? Was he really fully repaired, when it seemed like only yesterday that he woke up on her couch, burnt and broken, fresh from space?

"Oh," was all he could manage as he stood. A small cough. "Well, then. I suppose I'm uh… _off_. Don't want to be a bother." He couldn't keep his eyes from wandering over to the window. It was sunny and bright and maybe he stood a good chance out there in that weather, but he could already see dark, rolling rain clouds peaking over the horizon.

She followed him to the front door, arms folded across her chest, dark hair curtaining an expressionless face. He stood on the porch, his gaze sweeping across the endless wheat field. His non-existent heart sank.

"Where are you going to go?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"I'll find something. Maybe a nice little house like you've got yourself here. But, I'm alive and I'm free, and that's what matters, right?" he said, not wanting to dampen her mood.

"You know." She said, as he took a few steps off the porch. "My nice little house gets lonely."

He looked sideways at her, mid stride. "Your house… What? It's inanimate, luv, it can't get lonely! Besides, it's got you!"

A smile almost formed on her lips. "I'm asking you to stay." She said gently, leaning towards him.

Streams of endless apologies weren't uncommon on nights where something he said reminded them too much of their previous time together, but she would always end the night by telling him how she'd missed him and was glad he was back. She would always settle his uncertainties and help him through life on the surface, something that seemed to come second nature to her, from a lost life of before Aperture.

It was difficult for him, and she could see it. He was bombarded with an entirely new world to take in all at once, without any aid from Aperture's databanks. The first few weeks after the final repair were rough for him. He'd never stepped foot on the surface before, and now it was his world. The odds seemed to pile against him. When he'd fallen against a rock bed and split the synthetic skin of his arm, they'd had to manually find and input the correct code for exterior repair (which also cleaned up the bruises on his face and neck from his landing.). He was constantly being overheated by the direct sunlight – they'd had to adjust his sensitivity settings to take care of that, though he was sure he had lost a bit of the feeling in his extremities.

It seemed like every time they fixed something to get him integrated into this bizarre world, six more problems would announce themselves at their doorstep. He was becoming frustrated and found himself missing his management rail and the cool, calm temperatures of the Cryogenic Relaxation Annex. He became less enthusiastic about the outdoors, usually opting to stay home and 'hold the fort' while Chell went out.

She came home one day to find him sitting on his bed, his back turned to her, twisting the wire of his charger between his fingers. She never acted without thinking, a by-product of her imprisonment in Aperture. But here, in a split second window of opportunity, she found her legs carrying her to him. She sat on the bed next to him and gently took the wire, setting it aside, taking up his hands instead.

"I want you to come with me."

He was surprised at her sudden outburst, but obeyed as she dragged him out of the bedroom. A slight groan escaped his lips as she opened the front door and they walked out, hand in hand. She was adamant about him coming with her, that was for certain, because her grip was iron. Shouldn't have been surprised, really, recalling all the times she kept a hold on him as they plummeted to a catwalk miles below.

The wheat brushed against his shoulders and swallowed her completely. He wasn't sure how she was seeing over it all – he hardly could – but she, as always, seemed to know exactly where she was going. It took them a good fifteen minute walk, during which Wheatley was tripped by invisible roots, attacked by little animals with tails bigger and furrier than their bodies, and nearly short-circuited by a frog that fancied a dip in a puddle.

He sighed in relief when he saw that they'd managed their way to a small opening in a rock face – shelter from the sun which, even on the new special settings, still threatened to overheat him.

He had to duck down to fit in the crevice, but once inside, it was cool and spacious without any hidden obstacles… in the beginning. As they progressed further and further into the cavern, he noticed that it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his footing.

Wheatley scrambled behind her, his feet slipping on the rocks that were wet with mildew. She was _miles_ ahead of him, and with every step he took, that gnawing fear grew. A nervous chuckle bubbled past his lips. "Not that this isn't… fun. But, uhm… where are we actually doing down here? I mean, honestly, we're quite a long way from home. What if we, I don't know… get stuck down here, or something… or something…"

She didn't reply, she didn't even turn around to acknowledge that he'd said anything. Perhaps she couldn't hear him. He knew she would get like that sometimes, completely dead to the world, focused on one thing and nothing else. This only increased his anxiety more. He hadn't seen her like this, this intense, since she'd run the tests.

His audio processors picked up a dull roar that sounded almost like a generator, only, like everything else about the surface, less consistent. As they scrambled through the cave, it grew louder, the rocks grew more slippery, and the air grew thicker. Any more moisture in the air and he was sure he was going to short circuit.

Chell disappeared momentarily around a corner; he followed.

He stood there and stared, both too awestruck and too terrified to move any closer. It was the most massive collection of water he'd ever seen, far larger than the lake to the west of the forest where he'd crashed back home. And it _moved_. It was constantly moving, falling, and he craned his neck to find where the portals were so cleverly hidden to make the water fall perpetually like that.

His eyes darted between her and the waterfall. She was mad! That noisy falling water could very well kill him!

Chell noticed his hesitancy, knowing that he had every right to be frightened of the waterfall, but she promised him, he wasn't in any danger of shorting and, after a good ten minutes of coaxing him out of the stone entryway, she led him over to the bank, where the water gently lapped over the slate, turning it a million different colors at once.

Water sprayed from the base of the water structure, flying about the chamber and making everything wet, but she promised him that they were far away enough not to be bothered by the water.

For a moment they both stood there; she'd come here often, as a sort of metal reinvigoration, and was completely unfazed by the display in front of them, though he was a nervous wreck. She took his hand and sat down on the damp rock, inviting him to do the same and she had him sit in front of her, closer to the bank and facing the monstrous flow of water. Gently, she eased him back until he was lying down, his head rested in her lap. He looked up at her, concern etched into his features. She merely smiled and began combing her fingers though his hair.

The sound of the waterfall drowned everything out, every thought and every feeling, save for her fingers in his hair, burnt as always. He could hardly even hear his own internal mechanisms, but he could feel the erratic whirring in his chest as it gradually slowed. His breathing evened out and had he preformed at any slower a rate, he would shut down. He looked at her with tired eyes, a small smile spreading across his lips. "This feels _magnificent_." He told her, though his own voice was dwarfed by the voice of the structure. She seemed to understand him well enough, she was good at that, and smiled in return, taking his glasses from him.

He closed his eyes and focused everything he had on the sound, the thrumming of the waterfall resonating in every part of his body.

To him, water had always meant certain death. But this was spectacular. The chamber was cool and damp and smelled like the water, it filled him without hurting him, and he found himself lulled into an almost-sleep where everything but the water and Chell ceased to exist.


	7. Heat

Summer in upper Michigan was hot. Wheatley knew this and tried to avoid the outdoors on the days where Chell knew he would overheat. The surface was a dangerous place for a robot, what with all its weather, but he was more than willing to put up with it. He didn't have to brave the elements; he lived in a nice, dry house where it was always an agreeable temperature and he was never at risk of shutdown because of outside influences; she made sure of that.

Chell's wardrobe was always very consistent: pants of some sort and one of those cozy looking tops that had the long sleeves and the necks that bundled to a stop right under her chin. She always wore one, she called them turtlenecks, and it was one of the most stable things Wheatley knew about the surface. When in doubt, Chell wears turtlenecks.

She had all different sorts of turtlenecks – some of them, the necks drooped, others had sparkly little threads woven into the fabric. She had almost every color in the spectrum. Reds and greens and blues – every color but orange. But his favorite was the bright yellow one. It was warm and soft and – best of all – he could spot her for _miles _in it! Find her in a tick if she ever got lost in a crowd, if they ever found a crowd for her to get lost in.

And when he looked out the front window, he could see her way past the edge of the wheat field. She went out once a week for food and water, and twice a month for wood and fire kindling. He felt bad being that he was usually stuck in the house while she did all those things necessary to keep herself alive. She worked so hard to keep _him_ alive, and all he could offer in return was a 'welcome back!' and a smile.

That being said, it turned out that he wasn't all too thrilled when his chance to help her finally came, a day not unlike any other, where he'd eagerly pressed his nose against the glass of the front window, awaiting her return home. The sun had been ruthless that day, heating the humid summer air to a striking ninety eight degrees Fahrenheit. She'd worn her yellow turtleneck, and he watched happily as her form bobbed through the wheat. Her speed was even and calculated and… slow, he realized as he watched her. And, it seemed, slowing. His brow creased. She was taking her time out there, in that heat?

He could see a flash of brown as the wood she was carrying fell to the floor, followed by the yellow of her top.

His muscles tensed; he watched her intently, waiting for her to pick herself up. She didn't move.

Completely abandoning his previous reservations about the ghastly heat, he threw the door open and plowed into the field, calling her name frantically.

When he reached her she was crumpled unceremoniously in the dirt, half draped over one of the logs she had been carrying.

"Do you _really_ think that this is the _most_ opportune moment for a nap?" he bubbled nervously, kneeling by her side. He gave her a little nudge in hopes of waking her up. When she didn't respond, he panicked. "Listen, I know, sleep. It's, uh, _crucial._ To your survival. But, last time I checked – and I'm pretty sure, fairly certain that it's still there – there's a _lovely_ bed, right inside. Very comfortable. Do you want to – n-no? No. Okay. Up we get. Oof, you're heavy. Not that I'm saying you're fat. Definitely not fat. Just, just… above my weight limit. Which is, admittedly, low. Alright, on we go."

Wheatley left the wood in a messy pile on the ground, an understandable act seeing as how he was already carrying Chell back to the house.

When he laid her on her bed, he could see her face, flushed and blotched with red. And, man alive, was she hot! Sure, when she was angry she would get a little red in the face, and heat up a little, but that was nothing compared to the nuclear meltdown that she was experiencing now.

By chance, it occurred to him that she, too, might be overheating. He'd only had to overheat once to get the message, and remembered how he'd woken up, lying on top of his bed sheets half-naked .He'd learned that Chell had pulled him in from the heat and, in a mad frenzy, had undressed him and turned the thermostat down to sixty degrees to help him recover.

The air in the house was cool, and already the red in her cheeks was giving way to a smoky pink. He figured it wasn't completely necessary to undress her, but turned towards he closet anyway, sliding the door open as quietly as possible.

Her closet was full of the long sleeved tops, and as he scanned the rack, he realized with a jolt that they were _all_ turtlenecks. His chest filled with simulated fear. He didn't want her overheating again, he didn't want the possibility of her being permanently broken.

Standing there, in a bit of a panic as he looked at her severely limited wardrobe options, he had a brainwave.

She came downstairs some hours later, after it had gotten dark outside. She still wore the bright yellow top, but also held a light blue one in her hands.

Wheatley sat at the kitchen table with a proud, lopsided grin plastered onto his face, making him look more than ever like the cat who swallowed the canary. She stopped about four feet from him and held up her shirt, unfolding it before him. "Did you do this?" she asked.

To call it a turtleneck would now be inappropriate, seeing as how turtlenecks would actually need to _have_ necks. This shirt, along with all the others in her closet and hamper, were missing their necks, as well as the sleeves; a jagged line ran sloppily across the cloth where Wheatley had cut it.

He nodded curtly, humming an affirmation.

She stared blankly at him before walking over to the stainless steel waste bin in the corner of the room, pushing on the foot pedal and dropping the shirt in.

Wheatley's grin fell faster than the lid as she stepped away. "No, no, no! That's not what you're supposed to do with that! You – you _wear_ it. To keep you from… overheating…" he finished slowly, watching her face turn that familiar shade of frustrated. "Oh, no. Don't… don't do that. Please?" he begged standing and moving over to her. He wrapped his gangly limbs around her, completely unsure about the whole 'comfort' thing. This was what Chell had done to quiet his panics more often than he'd like to admit. He didn't know if it would work on a human, but at least it was a _semblance_ of a plan, and when her shaking subsided into quiet shiver, he mentally congratulated himself for fixing what he'd somehow screwed up.

"I can't wear those, Wheatley." She huffed quietly. "Any of them."

"Why not, luv?" he asked, still holding her. "Lookit me! No neck, no sleeves, I'm fine! Completely still alive!"

She swallowed hard and pulled away from, rolling up her right sleeve. He frowned when he saw her arm, mottled with darkened skin, rough and foreign, so unlike the pale complexion of her face and hands.

"Uhm…" he started, confusion etched clearly in his features. "What's that? On your arm."

She looked him square in the eye when she said it, but it was without any anger or bitterness of any kind. "Part Five."

Part five. Two words that set him into a dizzying spiral of that memory. He'd seen it from his perch in the center of the chamber, the explosion that had sent her body flying across the room. He'd aimed to kill her, and any wounds that weren't fatal weren't important to him, and he hadn't even noticed the third degree burns she'd sustained. But now that he was getting a good look at her for the first time with a clear head, he saw just how much damage he did. He knew he'd almost killed Chell, but she seemed so alive, so very not-dead, that he'd thought she'd simply healed. Thinking about it now, though, he realized what a stupid idea that was.

"Part Five." He coughed, folding his arms across his chest.

"I hate it." She said, her voice edged with venom that made him look up in fear. "Two years! I got away from it two years ago. I got away from the turrets and the neurotoxin. I got away from _Her_ and I burned that stupid jumpsuit the first day I found real clothes. But I can't get away from _THIS._" She thrust her arm towards him to emphasize her point. He flinched away, still curled in on himself. She hadn't meant to scare him, and seeing him in such a state instantly quelled her anger. "I was wearing a tank top. Most of my upper body looks like this. I can't stand to look at it. All it does it remind me of-" Was there a word that summarized her nightmare at Aperture? "And I don't _want_ to remember. Especially not now, that you're here."

Wheatley looked at her. This wasn't about fear or forgetting. This, at least to her, was about starting over. With him.

Slowly, he moved towards her. "Do you know what Part Five reminds me of?" he asked, enveloping her again. "It reminds me of how bloody awful I was to you. A proper monster. It reminds me of two years in space And then it reminds me that, despite all that, I'm here now, you're alive, we're both free, and you _actually_ forgave me. And then I remember that I'm the luckiest man alive because of that." He said, rubbing small circles in her shoulder.

She let him hold her, her arms folded across each other in a poor attempt at hiding the scars. She tugged the sleeve back down and Wheatley backed up to look at her, a sharp look in his eyes that scrutinized her. "I know what to do." He whispered excitedly to her. "Close your eyes."

After a moment of uncertainty, she closed her eyes and kept her ears trained on his every move, though she couldn't imagine for the life of her what he was rummaging around the kitchen drawers for. Too late, it wasn't until she heard the snip-snip of the scissors that she opened her eyes.

He stood there, hunched over her in concentration as he cut away at her sleeves. She wanted to protest, to pull away and try to reattach the sleeve later, but before she knew it, he was sliding the disjointed fabric off her arm. He started on the other side, putting the two pieces of fabric on the table before cutting away the neck to join the others. When he was done, he stood back to admire his work, a botched tailoring job on the once-was turtleneck that revealed the mottled scaring on her arms and neck, a messy reminder that filled him with a strong remorse, as well as a strange sense of comfort. They _were_ starting over. Her scars were as much of a reminder of that as they were of Part Five, of nightmares of corruption and betrayal, or of That Place.

He thumbed away a rogue tear on her cheek. "There. More beautiful than ever." He said, smiling down at her.

Chell smiled and hugged him.

That was the last turtleneck she owned.


	8. Do Robots Dream of Electric Sheep?

"Hello! This is the part where I _kill_ you!" Wheatley leaned forward in the chassis. A warm smile spread across his lips as he saw her expression, still as determined and stony as ever, though he could almost see a glint of fear in her eyes.

A steady rhythm undertones his voice, babbling on as usual, only this time about the various way he'd have preferred to kill her. Her eyes traveled away from the screen, down to a metal sheet that jutted out at an angle, and which was slowly being coated by conversion gel that was dripping out of an unseen pipe.

It was as simple as solving any test, and in the back of her mind, she was almost grateful for GLaDOS's relentless testing. In a whir of blue and orange, metal and angry shouts from the android who was unable to see her, she escaped. She stared blankly at the death trap as He spring it several seconds too late. Her naturally calm exterior covered a hole the approximate size of the facility in her chest.

She ran.

* * *

><p>The corridor was cool and calm and silent, save for the distressed chirping of a lonely turret-cube.<p>

"Oo! I've got an idea!" his muffled voice boomed. Then, silence.

Chell's blood ran cold – had he left her? Maybe he was off formulating another death trap that would take ages to fix and fail anyway.

No. Wheatley had followed her every move through the facility. He wouldn't just leave her on her own, not now that she was so far from his reach.

She took a hesitant step forward; the turret noticed her and chirped happily, starting to crawl towards her, looking for comfort. The poor thing had been tampered with, utterly violated and dropped into a situation that it knew absolutely nothing about. She looked past it; the door was _right there_, right across the catwalk. She bit her bottom lip as she scanned the area, ignoring the urgings of GLaDOS, who was still firmly attached to the end of the portal gun. She started at a slow jog, her long fall boot clanging loudly on the metal of the catwalk.

She saw it at the last second; she knew that the testing tracks were built with panels, but they were scarce in the inner workings of the facility. Her heels slid on the grated metal as she hit the brakes, skidding to as stop just before the panel crashed into the catwalk, mangling the metal and punching a hole in the wall, sending the poor turret flying.

"YES YES! IN YOUR FACE! I GOT YO-ah, nope."

Chell merely stood there. GLaDOS had gone quiet and the crumbling of the broken concrete walls soon trickled to a stop, the smoke of debris clearing.

"Fine. Let the games begin."

She portaled to the other side of the mangled walkway and ran.

* * *

><p>Running. She was always running.<p>

There was very little cover in the chamber, no place to hide, to avoid the bombs he was throwing at her. Tiny, powerful bursts of fire exploded all around her.

"Am I being too vague? I despise you. I loathe you. You arrogant, smugly quiet, awful jumpsuited monster of a woman. You and your little potato friend. This place would have been a triumph if it wasn't for you!"

The explosions around her stopped, diverted the other way for the moment while he degraded her. "Now I know why she wanted you _dead_ so bad! You do nothing but destroy!"

"Fire detected in the Stalemate Resolution Annex. Extinguishing." Came the announcer's voice. She was amazed she could hear it over the ambient volume of chaos that enveloped them.

The Chassis protected Wheatley from the water that rained down on them, clearing the floor of the chamber and extinguishing the fire in the Stalemate Resolution Annex.

"Go press the button!" GLaDOS cried from her spot in the alternate core receptacle – the very same one Wheatley had occupied hours earlier. "Go press it!"

Chell stood there, looking at the power mad Android in the center of the room. His glasses were cracked and his hair, normally parted neatly at one side, was a wild fly away mess of gold. His jumpsuit was ripped on the arm and he was breathing heavily, almost panting. His eyes were wild, the brightest blue she'd ever seen and literally flickering on the edge of sanity.

"I forbid you to press it!" he growled.

She didn't hate Wheatley, but she hated the man he'd become. He'd been taken from her, corrupted beyond recognition by the Chassis, by _Her_. Everything having to do with Her was monstrous and nothing good ever came out of Aperture – except him, and now he was gone, replaced by this power-mad idiot. She didn't have a problem disobeying and dethroning Him – if only to save him, though he was too blinded by programming to see that.

With a scowl at the angry robot still firmly attached to the throne, she turned and sprinted to the Stalemate Resolution Annex. Normally, she would never dream of putting GLaDOS back in her own body, back in charge, but doing so now meant her freedom, and the chance to give Wheatley the freedom he sought with her in the beginning.

Chell reached out a hand for the button, looked up by chance and saw blinking red lights.

Then, nothing but fire.

* * *

><p>She woke with a start, her hair and clothes matted to her skin by a cold sweat. Her own breathing was jagged and her eyes wet.<p>

A dream.

She peeled the sheets from over her and relaxed when she felt the familiar soft shag carpet beneath her toes. She took a deep breath and moved silently across the room, pulling her door open gently. A glance at the hall clock told her that it was three twenty two in the morning – an ungodly hour to be up roaming the house.

It was dark, but the hall was empty – she'd moved the furniture out of the hall the week Wheatley had moved in – in his state of disrepair, he'd often collapse on his way to her bedroom to warn her, thus injuring himself further when he hit the edge of a table. But that was way back when he'd still slept on the couch downstairs. Now, he stayed in the room down the hall from hers; she just never replaced the furniture.

She pushed her palm flush up against the wood of the door, her other hand turning the cool metal of the knob. The door opened without a sound.

The curtains were drawn, allowing light moonbeams to flit through the room, some landing on his form, lying on his side on the bed under a light layer of sheets; a black cord protruded from the back of his neck as he faced her. He'd occasionally charge at night and let Chell revive him in the morning. The light fell on his face and she could see how peaceful he looked as he slept, just as she'd left him several hours earlier.

This was her Wheatley, her best friend and her other half, the only person who had ever cared about her and made her smile. It'd been so long since she'd taken him in, and she was still plagued by night terrors, but nothing could change the way she felt about him, no amount of Mashy-Spike Plates or Neurotoxin.

She smiled and closed the door.


	9. Coin Operated Boy

It was nights like this that she enjoyed the most. Nights when the seemingly endless workload to keep herself alive ceased to exist and there was nothing to be done but sit there and just revel in the fact that she was _happy._ How couldn't she be? She had a house, her freedom, ample supplies to last the winter, and she had him.

Wheatley sat next to her on the couch in front of the fireplace, with one arm draped over her shoulders and his head tilted back slightly to rest on the top of the couch cushion, eyes closed. His breathing was deep and even, but she knew he wasn't asleep. He couldn't sleep. He wasn't Human, as much as he looked and acted like one. He was an Android, Aperture technology.

Aperture. That word still set her nerves on edge, hyper aroused her. She'd purged her life of everything associated with That Place, but there they sat, completely comfortable together. She looked at him curiously as she remembered when GLaDOS had let her out of that Hell; She'd also given her a bit of a going away present. She could still hear the faint rumbling as it came up the elevator shoot. The door opened and out flew her best friend: the small metal cube with a single pink heart on each side, the Aperture Science Weighted Companion Cube, burnt and charred from its time in the incinerator. It made Chell cringe to think just _how_ the cube had gotten into the incinerator. But as much as she loved the cube, it made her sick to look at as she spent night after night on her trek to a civilization that she had no way of knowing was not there.

It hindered her journey, causing her to pause in the middle of perfect walking conditions to rage and cry and sleep the day away in a manic depression as the reality of what she remembered of her life hit her.

She'd left the cube in the wheat fields, miles and miles away.

Every time she looked at it, she was reminded of that place, her own personal nightmare. And she was reminded of how truly _alone_ she was, without a clue as to what she was doing out on the surface.

Little things reminded her of terrible times. Colors, smells, even simple words, and she did everything she could to avoid remembering.

She wasn't alone anymore, and she cared about him more than she'd ever cared about the cube. But what made him so different? He was the biggest reminder of them all, a living, breathing personality core. Not to mention, the very same personality core who had repeatedly tried to kill her. Why, when her own companion cube made her sick to her stomach, was she okay with him?

It was something that had often troubled her sleep in the first few weeks he was with her. She had planned to fix him and turn him out into the world to fend for himself, but as time went by, she caught herself smiling before she fell asleep, happy to think that he'd be there in the morning. It had scared her, but she forgot all about her fears when she was with him. His senseless ramblings distracted and amused her.

Suddenly, she found that she wasn't alone any more. He'd come for her, woken her out of Cryo and made the clean tiles and recycled air seem a little less lonely. They were tackling those Hellish puzzles again, but _together_ this time. It was a funny little analogy that made her lips tug into a bittersweet smile, happy and fearful all at once. She was falling so easily into the comfortable roles they'd played for one another There. What happened when they hit a Stalemate?

The thought grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard the first time it crossed her mind, but she'd constantly remind herself, he'd constantly remind her, they weren't There anymore, she's so safe and he's so, so sorry.

There were nights when they would just sit together – He, unnaturally quiet with his arms around her in a silent promise and her, face buried in her knees as she recalled with overwhelming accuracy everything that had happened. The world ceased to exist and she was plunged into an imaginary world of sights and sound and memories. Sometimes, his grip was the only thing tethering her to reality.

She began dreading the day when he was fully repaired, the day he was to leave, to go God knows where and hopefully survive. She didn't want the day to come. She hated herself for it, but once the major repairs were done – the ones that took care of the constant pain he was in – she lied. She lied when she came home from long trips into the abandoned city. When she walked through the door and was met with Wheatley's eager questions, "Have you found it yet? The part?" she lied to him. She told him that she was still looking. Meanwhile, the piece was concealed delicately in an old handkerchief in her pocket. She hated herself for it, but she knew the repairs could have been done in a few weeks.

Despite her stalling and her lies, the day came. Her voice was heavy when she said it to him, when she told him he was done. And as she followed him to the front door, she told herself that had been the plan from the beginning, and there was no going back: She was going to watch him leave.

He seemed eager, at first, but his expression portrayed a sincere worry. She figured he had every right to worry: he was suddenly faced with a world that could kill him as easily as the rain fell. She swallowed hard and watched him take a few steps off the porch.

She didn't know where the words came from, but it was the best she could offer in her state of surprised confusion. When he didn't respond at first, she stood there, dumbfounded at her own mouth. She'd just offered for him to stay, to live with her.

He'd muttered something about the house being inanimate and not being able to be lonely and she smiled. He didn't understand. It took a second, but she eventually became confident in her decision and flat out asked him to stay with her. And he'd accepted.

Despite the comfortable routine they'd slotted themselves into, the docile familiarity between them, she couldn't help but still wonder as she looked at his relaxed features, what was it that made him different?

Her eyes traveled over the delicate curve of his jaw line. Neck, shoulders, hands.

Metal and elastic and plastics. Lights and synthesizers. He wasn't real, but she didn't mind. He was hers, real or not. She cared about him and he cared about her. He hated seeing her scared or upset or hurt and that was real enough to her. She, in turn, sheltered him in the same manner and they were just generally protective of one another.

She tried to convince herself that there _was_ no solution, devilishly hidden in the man sitting next to her, but that same nagging feeling of uncertainty and doubt crept back into her mind. There had to be something. There was always a solution.

He half opened an eye, peering at her sideways. It was then that she realized she'd been staring at him for some time. He lifted his head as she turned hers away from him, tying to convince him it was a passing glance.

"Something on your mind, luv?" he asked, his voice low – something that didn't happen too often from him.

Slowly, she turned back to face him and smiled. She tucked her legs beneath her and laid a hand across his chest. "Thanks." She said, causing him to frown in confusion. When she laid her head against his shoulder, he decided that whatever she'd meant, she'd meant it in good spirits. His arm wrapped around her in a sort of half hug and she gently drifted off to sleep against him.

Her last conscious thought was that she still didn't know what made her so comfortable with him, despite everything, all the bad blood and even worse memories that, unbeknownst to him, still kept her awake at night.

And that, whatever the reason, it didn't matter.


	10. Fire

Wheatley took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door as quietly as possible. No need to frighten her prematurely with any loud noises. It was dark, but she still had a small lamp on near her bed, and that was enough light for him to move by. He crept towards her, watching her sleeping form very carefully for any sudden movements. She lay on her back with her head tossed to the side. Her deep chestnut hair, freed from the familiar pony tail, was splayed across the shockingly white pillow, creating a swirling contrast. She looked so happy, just to be asleep, he wondered if he should just leave her…

He shook himself mentally, astounded at the thought. He couldn't leave her, he couldn't. It wasn't an option. His programming, irreversible as it was, told him that she just looked so _peaceful_, it would be wrong to wake her up. But something underneath that, something weaker and _smarter_, it demanded him to wake her.

His hand touched her shoulder, still unsure. His other hand curled in a fist around a blanket.

_Do it._

He shook her gently. "Chell, wake up. You – you have to wake up." He bent over her, whispering. He saw her expression, the corners of her mouth twitched up at the sound of his voice, but she turned over, facing fully away from him. His hand still rested on her shoulder. He bent closer to her.

"No, you have to wake up, _now_." He hissed in her ear.

In her still half-asleep state, her subconscious brought her back to The Lair at the sound and tone of his voice. Her eyes shot open, her mind thinking it was fully awake, alert and aware. She was greeted by fire, hot orange flames that jumped out at her. Intensifying her waking nightmare, she kicked at the covers, kicked at him as he tried to pull her out of bed. He managed to wrap his fingers around her arm, to pin her, thrashing, to the bed. This was the part where he killed her.

His other hand came to her face. She tried to slap him away, but he forced her to look at him. Her eyes widened with realization when their gazes met. This was not the man who had wanted her dead. He'd been long gone, and this was her friend, his features etched with concern and a subtler fear. This snapped her back to reality.

Wheatley was often frightened, but he had a pretty good sense of when something was truly dangerous. Critters and the such, unruly weather, he was able to recover from fairly quickly and, as time went on, he reacted less and less to things of the sort. But the look on his face now was similar to that of when GLaDOS had crushed him half to death. He was in trouble, they both were.

Chell stopped her struggle and jumped to her feet the moment he released her. She could see him flinch, ready to receive another blow and to try to restrain her again, but it wasn't needed.

Her lungs protested violently at the air, which was thick with an unpleasantly heavy smell that stung her eyes, resulting in a choking cough.

"We have to go. I'm sorry, we have to go." He moaned repeatedly.

She wanted to ask him why, tell him that it was three in the morning and ask him what was going on, but he smothered her voice as he threw the blanket over her shoulders and tugged it over her head before wrapping himself protectively around her.

She couldn't see a thing, he had her cocooned in the blanket and it was all she could do to keep herself from stumbling over her own feet, let alone his, he was walking so close.

The smell wafted into her room as he opened the door, choking her.

All her senses were cut off. She couldn't see, and Wheatley was practically draped on top of her, but none of that was what scared her. The thick scent of smoke and burning wood filled her nose, and the crackling of fire drowned everything else out, even his voice in her ear. The fire in their home was all she could hear.

Her hand found his as tears slipped down her cheeks. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening.

His hand swallowed hers, giving a reassuring squeeze that kept her from slipping into something that resembled hysteria. Still, the thoughts of denial sped through her mind, but she answered every one with the same calculated answer: Our house is on fire. Get out.

It was very possibly the best thing at the moment, the fact that he'd draped the blanket right over her head, that she couldn't see a thing, that she couldn't see everything she had worked for, her whole world, burning before her. Wheatley held her closer as they made their way through the house. Flames threatened to break through the safety of the walls and smoke curled in ghastly ribbons from the ceiling. His grip on her was iron as he led her through the burning halls. There was no way in Hell he was letting her go, even for a second.

The heat was almost unbearable. Not quite enough to overheat him, but it was still uncomfortable, and Chell's desperate coughing from underneath the blanket only made their situation more urgent. Everything was so disoriented in the house, he wasn't quite sure which way was out. He knew they were in the living room, then came the foyer –

There! There was the front door! He maneuvered them around the couch, through the small hall and out the door. Only then did he let go.

Chell threw the blanket to the ground and stumbled off of the porch in a mad frenzy. She was mildly aware of the downpour and the faint sound of thunder that roared over the burning roof of the house. Rain mixed with her tears, matting down her hair and clothes as she stopped in the wheat and spun around, looking for Wheatley in the mass confusion of the fire lit night.

He'd let her go, where was he? He wasn't with her – it was raining, he wouldn't be…

She spun back to face the house, seeing him in the doorway, swatting a rogue ember off of the back of his hand with an irritated yelp.

She screamed for him, the sheer volume of the noise ripping at her throat. Her feet pounded the bare earth as she raced back to the burning structure.

He was watching her, and this alarmed him. He didn't want her in the house. He called back to her, telling her to stay out in the wheat, that he'd be fine, to just go! But she bounded up the steps to the porch and made to stay with him.

Fire jumped between them as the roof of the porch began to collapse under the influence of the flames. She screamed as it crashed between them, blocking her path and his escape. The fire spread across the wood of the porch deck, forcing her back into the wheat. She watched as their house was slowly swallowed by the greedy flames, but it was hardly the house she was scared for. She looked about her, trying to find the blanket. The rain could make it wet enough for it to be a sufficient cover while she went back in…

The fire made the air ripple as she looked back. Lying under the fallen piece of roof was a corner of the maroon afghan curled and frayed under the heat as fire ate it as greedily as it ate the roof of the house.

She couldn't see him, he was gone! He was gone again! Chell's breathing became deep and ragged. He couldn't be gone again, she'd just gotten him back!

Lightning illuminated the scene for all to see, and Chell felt as though the bolt had struck her, and not a miserable spot of wheat miles and miles away. The night's events, previously disastrous and cruel and random, suddenly made sense. Their house was the only thing for miles, besides wheat. It was the highest point for miles around, until you hit the forests that surrounded them on nearly all sides like an ocean of foliage, but it hadn't always been that way. There used to be a tree, just behind the house, but all that was left of it now was a large, flat stump where she'd hacked it down. It hadn't been a very formidable tree, it came down easily enough, and that was why she'd taken it down. In the first months before she even really knew she was truly _free_, she knew she needed to survive. And that was the only tree, she'd thought, within reach. Before she fixed the house, before she got the gas up and running again, to heat the house through the harsh winter, the simple little fire place had sufficed nicely, but the _wood_, she needed _wood_…

But that was gone now and, in retrospect, she was surprised this hadn't happened earlier.

She lied down in the wheat, in the mud and the puddles, half hoping it would drown her and her stupidity, and cried.

The fire raged for hours, peeling the paint off of the small cottage and causing the roof to collapse in on itself in some places. It was nearly impossible to get in, now, even after the steady downpour had drowned the flames and put out the fire. Even the rain had stopped, now, leaving nothing but the heavy morning air, still thick with smoke and a sick, aching feeling that had settled itself quite comfortably in her chest. She still laid in the mud, curled in on herself in a ball, hands in loose fists at her face, shaking and in a near-comatose state.

The house wasn't too terribly damaged. Pieces of the roof were missing, and the whole thing had a thoroughly _baked_ look to it – she couldn't say what the inside looked like. She wasn't even sure if it had been touched. The most she'd seen of it was a fleeting glance before the burning porch had separated Wheatley and her. But all these thoughts were lost on her, lost in sleep and nightmares and whisked away.

The noises were carried to her by the wind, but she didn't hear them. None of the outside world existed to her, and at the moment, that was the way she wanted it. None of last night mattered, none of it had happened, and she wasn't going to slip from the safety of sleep so easily.

The shifting of broken, charred wood wasn't enough to drag her from the safety of her subconscious, nor were the low mutterings, annoyance at being momentarily stuck in the wood. The soft footsteps weren't enough, or the light breath in her ear, nor were the trickles of water that escaped from under her eyelids.

But the gentle hands that lifted her carefully from the mud, holding her close to him, the soft whirring in his chest and the way he pressed his mouth to the top of her head, muttering senselessly on about how it was all fine, broke her barrier to the world and woke her. With a shuddering gasp, she pressed herself closer to him, burying her face in his chest.

"If you're… you know, not feeling up to it, not ready to go back in there, we could just sit here. Forever. Like this. I'd be… perfectly okay with that. Honestly. So, that's an option. Option A: Sit here. Do nothing. Completely up to you, luv."


	11. Feed a Cold

The rain was relentless all month, driving torrents that kept him inside. Chell still had no choice but to go out for food, leaving him home alone for hours on end. Consequently, Wheatley now knew the number of doors and windows in the house and that there were exactly 242 floorboards in the living room.

She'd come home, having trudged through the wheat in the dark and the rain and the mud, sopping wet and empty handed.

The rain made it impossible for her to reach the small, abandoned town to the west, flooding the creek and making it dangerous to pass.

Wheatley began to worry. He knew that humans needed a certain amount of food, or else it was permanent shutdown. It was the fourth day that Chell came home without food, Wheatley came back into the living room with a sympathy towel.

She dried off briefly and began up the stairs to go change her clothes. Halfway up the stairwell, she sneezed.

"Bless you!" Wheatley called from the foyer.

* * *

><p>The Android had come to know what to expect. At six o clock in the morning, she'd be downstairs. He would join her and they would discuss the upcoming day, and whether or not it was safe for him to go with her. When the answer was no – which it usually was – he'd help her get ready before they went their separate ways and he did <em>whatever<em> to keep him from going out of his mind with boredom.

She didn't like to break her routines – he'd learned that when he'd spent an entire day with a grumpy Chell because he'd broken her axe on the day she needed more wood. So he didn't understand why, when he ventured downstairs one morning, she wasn't there.

Wheatley understood that they cared for and trusted one another, more now than they ever did in Aperture, and had long ago realized that she wouldn't abandon him on a whim. Regardless, her absence was still alarming, to say the least. He climbed the stairs slowly, looking back over his shoulder every now and then just to make _sure_ she wasn't already sitting at the kitchen table.

Her bedroom door was still closed, he saw as he peaked the stairwell, and upon further investigation, he found that it was also _locked_.

Their house had a peculiar floor plan (or so he'd been told. He honest to God couldn't find anything wrong with the floor!). There were four rooms on the second floor – Wheatley's bedroom, a bathroom, Chell's bedroom, and another bathroom. The last two were joined somewhere in the middle, but each still had its own door.

Normally, Wheatley would be more than content with never going anywhere near a bathroom, what with all the water nonsense. But _her_ bathroom door, the one that led straight into her room, was unlocked. He entered nervously, keeping far away from anything made of white porcelain, as if it might jump up and short circuit him of its own accord, and was happy when the cold tile gave way to a soft, warm carpet.

She was there, in her bed, so _that_ was something. But at the same time, that discovery was also very unnerving. It was more than obvious that something was wrong.

"Chell? Good morning, luv! Yes, yes, it _is_ morning." He added as she gave a groan. "Up and at 'em, right? Oh. I suppose not, then."

She'd curled into the fetal position and pulled the covers far over her head, cocooning herself in a layer of white linen.

Uncertainly, he moved to her side and pulled her to a sitting position, then took a seat by her.

Her head swam as he pulled her up. She knew he was talking to her – she could hear a concerned buzz that she was sure was coming from him, but she wasn't hearing a word of it. All she could focus on was the constant churning of her stomach and the miles between her and the bathroom.

She gagged. Maybe it was her overly sensitive stomach, or maybe it was her imagination, but he smelled like raw plastic and hot motor oil. She planted a hand firmly on his chest and pushed him away, turning her head.

The concern in Wheatley's voice neared hysteria. "Chell, it's me. What's the matter? You can tell me, I wont… What happened?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her with some difficulty, as she kept struggling to push him away. Eventually, she stopped resisting, instead clutching a large clear bucket to her stomach.

Suddenly, her head pitched forward and her shoulders heaved as she wretched into the bucket.

He was disgusted and confused and terrified all at once.

He'd never had a lot of experience with Humans. After all the time he'd spent with them in the Relaxation Annex, you'd think he'd be some sort of Human _expert_ by now. Truth was, all the humans he'd constantly watched over were asleep the whole time. They didn't do much.

Even so, he was fairly certain they weren't supposed to be doing _this._ All that green fluid pouring out of her, the ghastly noises, the way she looked positively _miserable…_ she was dying, she had to be. Nothing else could be that unpleasant.

Wheatley buried his face in her neck and rocked them back and forth (Chell didn't think she could have possibly been more nauseous. Silly her.). Her stomach gave another unpleasant protest as his rocking continued. That combined with the possibly imaginary smell and the pounding in her head, she would have welcomed sleep a long time ago, but now he sat there with her, whispering weakly that she had to be okay, that he didn't know what he'd do without her. She was confused at his antics, but simultaneously reminded herself that this was _Wheatley_, after all. She wanted to smile, to tell him that she was fine and just needed sleep, but every time she opened her mouth, a wave of fresh nausea washed over her, effectively shutting her up and turning whatever prelude of a smile she wore into a grimace that only made him cling tighter to her. He pressed his cheek to her shoulder, her flushed neck hot against the cool, pale skin of his forehead. She could hear his quiet mumblings, unable to make out words.

What a sad pair they were: probably the last Human on Earth, sick to her stomach, and an anxiety ridden android who was apparently clueless as to the fact that, as sweet as his intentions were, he really wasn't helping.

Chills started to rack her as the winter air and Wheatley's inevitably metallic feel got to her.

He'd seen this before. The uncontrollable bodily functions, the shaking – this was neurotoxin. Every part of him stiffened, leaning away from her and taking her face in his hands. "I don't want to alarm you," he started, his voice tense and an octave higher than normal. "Probably harmless. Probably. And, again, nothing to worry about, but I _think_ you might be experiencing some effects of the neurotoxin. Which, now that I'm saying it, probably isn't as harmless as I might have led you to believe."

She shivered again, grimacing and clutching her stomach.

"I'm so sorry," he ducked his head against her. "I think… I think you're dying, luv. I've seen it before, the – the scientists, back when they were still building _her_. Did this, then keeled right over. Oops, you're dead. It wasn't pleasant, really." He said, his voice cracking. She couldn't answer him, as she threw her head forward and vomited again. Wheatley waited for her to pick her head up before holding her closer. "Though, honestly, two and a half years, that is _some_ delayed reaction. I'm sorry," he repeated. "I wasn't then, when I nearly suffocated you with the stuff, but I am now. Really, I am. And I… I just want you to know…"

She shook her head, swallowing another wave of sick and scooting away from him. He seemed a bit hurt when she broke his grip on her. She felt like vomiting again, but she wasn't going to let him beat himself up. She took a deep breath in hopes of settling her stomach enough for her to speak. It worked, though it made her dizzier in the process. "It's," she grunted, the sudden speech making her woozy. "not the neurotoxin." Her words were slurred and waterfalled out of her mouth. "I'm just," she hiccupped. "just sick. The flu."

Wheatley sated at her, confused for a moment. He was so sure this was what happened to a Human before they died of Neurotoxin poisoning. How on Earth could a little stomach virus produce the same side effect? Albeit, her symptoms were a thousand times less than the scientists he'd watched die, but then again, her poisoning had been two years ago. "Are… are you _sure?_ Absolutely _positive_?"

She nodded, looking up at him with a weak smile before turning her head and vomiting again.


	12. She Remembered Everything

Wheatley felt he'd never get the hang of these Human things. Granted, he wasn't _truly_ Human – a grand impression of one, maybe, but Chell didn't seem to mind. She was an endless reservoir of patience, where he was concerned. He couldn't count how many times he'd caught himself on fire or set fire to something in the house, or both, but she simply put it out and let him try again. Cooking was an ordeal in its own. It was fun – he was atrocious at it but it was fun, and she tried to teach him.

She understood that it was new to him, a learning experience and things weren't going to go smoothly. They took things slow – she taught him how to use the oven and the stove, and to tell when the burner was hot enough to burn his skin (which, they soon learned, had a burning point very similar to human skin: Hot.) She took care of preparation, rinsing vegetables under the tap – a task that he flat out refused to do, under reasonable circumstances – and taught him how to cook.

It was a learning experience for both of them, really. Chell learned that his 'revelation' after the first core transfer had destroyed whatever self confidence he had possessed prior. He was easily frustrated by tiny things, like not being able to roast the potatoes properly, and after the first few tries, he'd be more than ready to throw in the metaphorical towel. Chell wouldn't let him, consistently cleaning the burnt out of the pan and setting it back on the stove, ignoring his assertions that he couldn't do it, that he'd just end up burning the rest of the food. She'd just give him a smile and tell him to give it another try.

Wheatley stooped down to pull a pan from the cabinet as Chell turned the stove on. They'd graduated from low level root vegetables and she was letting him experiment with searing meat today. A bit of a grizzly experience, as she took the chunks of raw flesh out of the freezer and dropped them on the counter in front of him. Thankfully, he wasn't supposed to touch it because frankly, it looked gross. No, the neat chunks of rabbit were going in the pan he was currently holding.

Chell reached for the pan as he held it out to her. She glanced up at him, but the smile she wore quickly turned to concern. His eyes were closed, brow furrowed and teeth clenched behind trembling lips. His hands were shaking and the artificial color in his cheeks had left him. With a clatter, the pan crashed to the floor, coming to a rest in the corner of the kitchen as he braced himself up against the countertop.

Chell stepped over the pan and up to him, resting a hand on his arm as he brought a hand up to his face, knocking his glasses askew. His voice was low and dry and thick with something she didn't recognize from him. "M-man alive," he whispered, swallowing hard. "Something I might want to mention, luv: All Aperture technology has a homing device. No, don't look at me like that, it's not Her," he huffed, when he saw the look of shock on her face. Chell didn't know what she would do if GLaDOS ever wanted him back. His breathing was labored, as if he'd been running. "It was so we could find one another, around the facility. Obviously no use now, but it still works! You know, I wasn't the only one who was sucked into space. It's one of the other cores, it has to be. They broke orbit and they want to come back home!"

His eyes flew open and he bolted out of the kitchen, almost knocking her over. He made a mad dash for the front door, calling for her to keep up. Still in shock, she clicked the stovetop off and ran after him. Any other day, she would have tackled him to the floor before he could make it out of the house, but the weather was mercifully pleasant. No harm in him being out of the house. Eventually, she matched him stride for stride, despite his absurd height. He kept talking, and she wasn't sure if he'd stopped since he'd made it outside. "…And I can _do_ it, I _know_ I can!" he called as he ran. "That night, when I crashed, I don't remember a bit of it, the landing, but my systems do! I – I didn't tell you this before, but I shut down, only temporarily, and I'm fine now, right? Don't remember a bit of that, either! But my black box saved my coordinates! I can bring him right back to where _I_ crashed! It's all saved, right up here!" he tapped a finger to his temple.

They passed the old water pump Chell had built and careened into the familiar clearing Chell had stood in that night. Nothing could ever make her forget. No amount of brain-damage could erase those moments from her memory, she thought as she stood there with him – the man who'd fallen from space. She remembered everything. Every feeling, every sensation, every last detail down to the birds that had fled from the trees.

She remembered everything; she never thought she'd see anything like it ever again – the rippling of the heat and the smell of ozone only made her legs pump faster. It was all so surreal, to be experiencing it all again, to be going back to Wheatley's crash site, where their life together had begun.

Of course, his landing had been chance, or fate, or a miracle, or whatever you fancied to be in charge of bizarre coincidences like that. But this time was no coincidence; Wheatley himself had conducted it.

"Oh-ho-ho, wouldn't it be brilliant if it was that little space core?" he laughed, looking back at her as he ducked under a low branch. "Then we could take him home and you could fix him up, just like you did me! He'd be a million times better off than he was before, and maybe we could even b-"

Chell had to pitch forward and grab his arm to keep him from walking straight into the shoulder high ditch in the ground. This was, in fact, the same spot she'd found him two and a half years ago. She remembered everything about this place, but she definitely didn't remember the broken trees or the smell of burning rubber masked by the heat. These subtle differences made her stomach churn, but he barely seemed to notice.

The two peered over the edge of the crater to find the core – the young boy she remembered from the facility, with his ginger hair and striking yellow eyes.

Her breath caught as he gave a booming laugh. She remembered _everything._ Before she could stop him, Wheatley was already sliding down the side of the ditch. She had no choice but to follow.

"Remember me? Your old Space buddy?" He knelt by Space's side and turned him over gently. "Hey, don't worry, mate. This lady here's going to-" he stopped.

Space's head lolled to the side as Wheatley turned him over. The child's gray eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly straight ahead at his old space companion. There was a large dent that ran from his chest to his jaw line that had popped his shoulder out of its socket. In certain places, heat had caused the synthetic skin protecting his inner circuitry to curl and peel away.

Wheatley screamed, dropping the smaller Android's body and stumbling back, scrambling to the edge of the crater and pressing his back against the dirt wall. Chell rushed to him and caught him by the arm before he fell to the floor. He was shaking worse than before, now, and she could hear the erratic whirring of the internal fan. They sunk to the floor together, her arms wrapped tightly around him. She cradled his head on her shoulder, one hand running back and forth through his hair.

He drew his arms around her and let out a dry sob, unable to produce tears. He was never letting go of her, not now. He screwed his eyes shut and focused on the way she felt, tried to trick himself into thinking that she was all there was, that they weren't sitting in the dirt with a dead core only a few feet away. But always, always the image of the mangled bot crept its way to the front of his mind.

His grip tightened on her shirt, hands balling into fists around the material. "I shouldn't have-" he choked. "He could've landed safely, somewhere else, I shouldn't have – God, why can't I just…?"

Chell felt a slight pain as her ribs began buckling under his grip but said nothing, she only held him tighter in return. "Listen tome." She said firmly, shifting her position so that she could lift his gaze to hers. "You couldn't have known. It worked for you, you were fine, and you're right, it should have worked for him. Maybe he was already hurt when he broke the atmosphere, there's no telling what happened to him, but I know it wasn't your fault." She could hear her own voice cracking, pity and sympathy for her friend and the poor core lying lifeless just a few feet away.

Wheatley trembled under her, silent, for nearly a half an hour.

When his shaking sobs became quiet shivers, he picked his head up from the crook of her neck and rested his chin on her shoulder. "How can you be sure?" he whispered. "When I was specifically designed to screw things up?"

"Because none of that matters out here." She whispered back. "This isn't about how efficient you are, how well you're programmed, Wheatley. This is something _new_, where you're a _person_, not just some machine. Listen, please: You _don't_ screw anything up. You're _not_ a moron, and It's _not_ your fault."

They sat there for several hours more as Wheatley gradually calmed. The sun had dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the sky an impossible black, without so much as a single star to smile at them. Instead, lightning bugs came to their aid, filling the ditch with a warm blaze that contrasted sharply with the cold blue glow of Wheatley's eyes.

He sat in front of her, with his back turned to his 'space buddy.' She kept her hands constantly either on his shoulders or touching his face or hair, just so that she could keep him from looking back at Space.

They talked. They talked about going into town; they talked about cooking and about management rails. They talked about anything that would keep his mind wandering. She watched as his irises – which had constricted to pinpricks upon the discovery of the body – gradually began filling the space behind his glasses. He was slowly coming back to himself, which meant a much more rational companion.

They talked until he was nearly himself again. They talked about exploring past the abandoned city, about finding a way to keep him safe from the elements, and about maybe even finding people. He smiled vaguely, telling her that he hoped they _did_ find other humans, for her.

Chell loved living with Wheatley, but she couldn't help wanting to meet other people, even just so she could finally know that she wasn't the only human left, as she'd suspected for some time. Maybe, she said, they could even move into a _real_ community.

Wheatley's smile dropped at this. "We can't leave him," he said, his eyes glowing a noticeably less intense blue. His voice softened. "We can't leave him here, when we go home, we can't just leave him."

She brought her hand back up to his face, cupping his cheek in her palm. His skin was still warm to the touch, evidence of his anxiety and the overload it had nearly caused. "You're right," she whispered, keeping his gaze trained on her.

* * *

><p>They stood in an open clearing, far from the crash site, a small mound of dirt piled at their feet with a slab of white stone placed dutifully at the front.<p>

Wheatley let go of Chell's hand as she leaned over and placed a makeshift candle on the tiny grave. When she stood, Wheatley looked up at the sky. He found it amazing how the sky at the crash site had been heavy and black as motor oil, but the sky here felt much lighter and millions of stars twinkled down on them, as if you were seeing into the very furthest regions of space.

"He would have liked it here," he said, quietly. His voice still held a heavy sadness for the other core and still a hint of terror at the day's events, but there was also a glimmering approval at the spot they'd chosen.

Chell took his hand again and brought it up to her face, pressing her lips against the smooth synthetic skin on the back of his hand.

Wheatley pulled her closer and sighed as they turned and began to make their way back to the house.


	13. Mist

Chell yawned. It had been a tiring week, almost nonstop with no sleep. Every minute of the day was spent tending to the half-demolished core. Something of his was always malfunctioning, even if had been fine thirty seconds ago. Voice chip, internal fan, you name it, it malfunctioned. Perhaps his body was just now adjusting to the shock – both physical and mental – of being back on Earth, but things were getting ridiculous now. She shook her head as she closed the tiny fuse box concealed under his left shoulder blade. It wasn't just that he'd blown a fuse. It was that he'd blown a fuse, she'd replaced it, and it shorted right out before she even had the chance to close him up. Four times. Consequently, they only had two fuses left – which she was sure they would be using sometime in the near future. She mumbled something about going out the next morning, as it was already ten fourteen at night and pitch black out.

Wheatley nodded, grateful for her patience. God knew he couldn't do half these repairs on his own. Provided if he could even open that hatch on his shoulder, or any of the others on his back, he couldn't exactly see what he was doing, couldn't just swivel his gaze one eighty like those older personality spheres could do. Shame, that. He needed her, and he realized this, especially as his body became more and more protestant to the sudden gravity bestowed upon it. Parts he didn't even know he had were malfunctioning, sparking and hurting and shorting his other systems out.

The core put the small box of fuses back in the cabinet, careful not to drop or crush them because he had a bad feeling that, at this rate, he'd need those last two before the night was out.

Chell sat on the edge of the small couch in the living room, grinding the base of her palms into her eyes. She didn't look up, but she felt the seat cushion next to her shift a bit as he sat down. "Thank you," he said.

She sighed in response and her lips stretched into a tired smile as she lifted her face to him. He was looking a thousand times better, just in the last month. He was no where near fully repaired, but at least most of the evidence of reentry had been cleaned away. His hair, however, still remained singed, dusted with a black that would never come off. She'd tried, multiple times over the last week, taking a damp cloth and giving his hair as much of a wash as his robotics would allow, but after somewhere around her sixteenth attempt, he'd asked her to just leave it. The cloth was beginning to grow more and more satiated with water every time they sat down to try to clean him up, and it had begun making him nervous. Chell had looked at the rag, noting that, while it wasn't remotely dripping, she hadn't squeezed as much of the water out of it as last time. With a huff, she surrendered. It was his head, not hers, and if the rag made him nervous, she would comply. It was only a minor detail, anyway.

"No, really," he said, interpreting her silent 'you're welcome.' "_Thank_ you. I… I could've _died_, if it weren't for you." He moved to place a hand on her knee, a physical representation of the fact that he was talking to her. He didn't know why he stopped halfway. Normally, he loved physical contact, a grab of the wrist or a pat on the head. After all the time he spent alone, wandering the corridors of the Relaxation Annex, after two years of silent exile in space, it was so comforting to know that someone was finally there.

But the look on her face made him stop. She was a naturally quiet person. He rarely heard her utter more than a few words at a time, and that's when he's _really_ prying. But this silence, the smile he'd received, wasn't an 'I'm-choosing-not-to-talk' smile. It was more of an 'I'm-not-really-listening-but-I'm-going-to-be-polite-and-pretend-like-I-was' smile. Yes, he was a bit put out by this. But she'd been up for bloody _days._

She shifted her gaze from his face to his outstretched hand, hovering in mid air between them. She pointed. Quickly, he snatched his hand back. "Oh that? Nothing. Not important. Listen," he said to her. "I'm a handful, and you've done a truly _brilliant_ job of fixing me up. Seriously. That cake stuff She went on and on about – if anyone deserves the imaginary cake, it's you." He grinned lopsidedly and his grin only widened when he was able to evoke a small one from her. "Good, we agree!" he clapped his hands together and stood. "Now, one more order of business: I _think_ it might be time to recharge."

Chell twisted away from him and leaned over the arm of the couch, opening up a small drawer in the side table. He tapped the tip of his boot against the drawer, the sudden action jerking the handle out of her grip and slamming it shut.

"Not for me, luv." He said, lifting her off the couch.

* * *

><p>The morning came, and Chell grabbed her coat and the axe that was nestled among the various umbrellas she'd found over time and set out the door with Wheatley in tow. She turned and gently pushed him back, off of the porch and closed the door behind her with a smile.<p>

The android darted to the window and parted the curtain. He pressed his nose against the window pane, fogging up the glass with his artificial breath and watching her disappear long before she made it to the edge of the wheat. It was one of those days when the clouds couldn't decide if they wanted to be in the sky or on the ground or somewhere in between, making it bloody hard to see anything.

During these times, Chell would go out on her own, into that ridiculously vast world – not that he thought she couldn't take care of herself! Quite the contrary, he knew she was far more qualified for it than he was.

Nonetheless, every time she went out in conditions less than favorable for the android, he'd follow her right to the front door and watch her as she was engulfed by the wheat fields that had grown rampant around the house, fretting once she was out of sight, wringing his hands together and pacing the house, _ALWAYS_ worried that something had happened, she'd just up and left – frankly he couldn't blame her, him just falling out of the sky onto her doorstep, who would _want_ to put up with that? – because she'd been gone for _far_ too long and he knew, he knew she wasn't coming back and he was _ALONE_.

He'd spent so long being alone that it shouldn't have been the frightening prospect it was. Maybe it was the thought of finally having someone who cared, who helped you, someone to talk to and acknowledge you who wasn't catatonic or dead.

He squinted at her form receding into the foggy darkness of four thirty in the morning. It _did_ look cold out there, but it didn't seem anything like the intense cold that they'd experienced a few weeks earlier that almost froze his hydraulic fluids in their tracks, seizing up his joints, and had left that deadly white-frozen-water on the ground.

She'd disappeared completely. She really shouldn't be out there in those conditions; there was nothing but miles and miles of wheat between their house and the city where she scavenged. She could so easily get lost, and never return and he was there, stuck in the house and unable to help her in any way.

His processors began whirring faster, the robotic equivalent of a quickened pulse as he threw the door opened and ran out onto the porch. "Chell!" he called, blindly. "Chell!"

He groaned inwardly. The clouds were a lot denser than they seemed from inside. He ran forward, further from the house. She was lost in this. She _had_ to be. He knew he would be if it weren't for—

He suddenly spun on the spot to face the house, which had disappeared like Chell into the murky depths of the fog. "No! No-no-no-no-no! Oh, where'd the house go?" A panic was rising fast in him, but he pushed it down and tried to stay calm for her; he turned back and swallowed hard. He had to find Chell. Things were bad now, but when he found her, everything would be okay – it always was.

"Chell." He choked out, his voice lost on the expanse of wheat field.

* * *

><p>Chell had spent the better part of the morning scavenging in the evacuated city to the north of their home. With a new box of fuses tucked safely away in the breast pocket of her coat, her rusted shopping wagon bumped over a rock or two as she made the three hour trudge home through the dew-sticky grain. The fog hadn't lifted yet, as it was only nine AM, but the visibility had increased considerably, allowing a thirty foot radius.<p>

"Ch-chell?" she heard, through the mist. Her gray eyes widened at the sound of his voice. "Ch-chell? Is… is that you? Is it? Chell?"

She spun around in the fog, trying to figure out where his voice was coming from.

Perhaps she was hearing things. It certainly seemed like there was no one out here. Besides, she thought, continuing on, Wheatley would have to be half mad or have found a sudden bravery to venture out of the house in this weather. He hardly liked it out when it was _windy_.

It came from behind.

A tangle of limbs wrapped around her, pinning her arms down so that her elbows dug into her sides. She gave in involuntary huff at the sudden impact, but he didn't seem to notice. "Oh, you're alive! Thought you'd gone and gotten yourself lost – this! All this white stuff, being a general nuisance, can't see _anything_! I-I can't even find the _house_ anymore!" His shoulders heaved forward, relaxing a bit, though he was still tightly attached to her. "Now we can go home, right?" he laughed nervously. "Lead the way."

As he let go and grabbed her arm instead, Chell's expression softened, having gone from shocked to bewildered to bemused. She patted his arm consolingly and led them back to the house.


	14. Epiphany

Chell slowed almost to a stop. The new corridor was badly lit and she had to squint down at her feet to make sure she wasn't going to fall over any destroyed pieces of the facility, because there seemed to be a lot of those lying around, especially now that she was nearing, as He called it, His Lair. She silently scoffed at this – it almost seemed like he thought of this as a _game_. Suppressing the urge to kick something, she raged at the thought. This was no game. This was her freedom at risk and, very recently, her life. He was a monster, plain and simple. She vaguely missed the bumbling bot who had guided her through the ruins of her prison what seemed like an eternity ago, but she had nothing but a bitter hatred for this twisted version of her Wheatley.

With a violent shake of the portal gun, she silenced the sardonic potato, who hadn't stopped patronizing her since the 'death option' incident. She silently simmered, remembering how he'd presented her with a "perfectly serviceable death _option!_"

He'd asked her, basically, to lie down and die.

Suddenly, her foot swung out almost of its own accord, the cool material of the long fall boots meeting the steel resistance of a mesh gate. A hollow ringing filled the small hallway. Before it died from the air, however, it was rejuvenated, the rattling cutting through her in an unnatural way. She spun back towards the gate to see –

Tiny fingers gripped at the mesh, intertwining themselves easily through the loops, holding on like a lifeline.

"Lady!"

She squinted closer. There was a young boy trapped behind the gate of the mesh. He looked to be about ten, twelve at the most. His face was small and round, topped by a shock of deep auburn hair that stuck straight up. She moved closer to the boy, feeling a momentary swell of happiness. Another human! This poor child, how long had he been here? Certainly not as long as she had, but perhaps he'd wandered in from the surface and gotten himself into one messy situation after another and somehow ended up here. She reached out a hand and his tiny fingers latched on to hers.

Too late, she saw the striking yellow irises that met her slate gray ones, the only betrayal of his inner robotics, much like her tormenter in the next room, only this one was genuinely frightened, not unlike how Wheatley had reacted when GLaDOS had plucked him so violently from the control panel. His eyes were wide, his artificial breathing heavy, and his grip on her iron. He tugged anxiously at his leg with his free hand, and she realized he was stuck, the poor thing. Core or not, he was terrified and alone and young, and she couldn't just leave him there. He seemed to be buried under debris that had fallen through the shoot: messes of wire and curves of metal, peeling skin…

She stopped trying to free the little core, stepping backward and gasping at the sight before her. They were bodies, piled high behind the mesh gate. Decomposing bots, dead cores whose eyes had gone gray long ago. Synthetic skin peeled and hung from their hollow faces, exposing curves of metal and wires sticking erratically out of their cheeks and empty eye sockets. Some were charred, or missing limbs. The yellow eyed core whimpered pitifully. It had been left here to die, she realized. Her eyes fell on another core. A young man with pink eyes that must have been bright and alive at one point. Now, they were dull and half lidded and a faded color that shifted lazily up to look at her.

"Lady, help. Please? Lady!" He struggled madly to free himself from underneath the corpses of cores that had been dumped on top of him.

She retched her fingers from his tiny grip, stumbling backwards to witness the sheer mass of death of those who had never truly been alive. There were scores of them, most too far decomposed to recognize them clearly.

The yellow core whimpered again and tried to free itself from the pile. Her eyes traveled away from him, down to a green-eyed bear of a man at the bottom of the pile, propping himself up with some difficulty on his elbows, gazing interestedly at her as the little one kept calling for help.

These were corrupt cores, bots that were engineering failures, that had been programmed wrong, that were useless…

A cold glow from the next bin caught her eye, pulling her closer to the exit.

Oil trickled profusely from his gaping mouth, mixing with his messy blonde hair as it ran up the side of his face. His gray eyes, behind the spider-webbed lenses, were wide open, staring sightlessly directly at Chell, who stood there in shock.

Wheatley.

Of course. It made sense! Wheatley was never fully functional. He was broken, useless just like the others, the dead cores his lifeless body was lying on top of. His limbs were splayed twitching and sparking as his internal systems sputtered to a stop.

Chell backed herself up against the wall, sinking to the floor. Her eyes never left his gaze, until she threw her head back, her body racked with laughter.

He was dead!

Her shoulders jumped at every intake of breath and water streamed down her face at the sheer intensity of her joy.

There were footsteps, and the door at the end of the hall opened.

"Luv?"

With a gasp, she opened her eyes. The cold, narrow hallway was replaced by her own living room. The sunlight streamed through the open windows, her laughter replaced by shuddering gasps and a soft voice in her ear.

"…I – honestly, I don't know what was going on in that clever little mind of yours, but whatever it was, it's over. You're okay, luv, and I'm right here." The voice was given a physical presence as she realized that she was being held against him, his arms folded across her chest.

She was lying on the couch, propped up against him; she drew her knees up and curled herself around his arms, grasping at him like a life line, in a similar manner to her dream-Space. Her whole body shook as she fought back the urge to cry.

His voice came again, soft and concerned and so _painful_, as she conjured up those ghastly images of him lying behind the mesh – finally, _finally_ dead, the harsh laughter that rang in her ears. Tears forced their way down her cheeks and she let out one choked sob.

He froze under her grip. She wiped the water quickly from her face with the back of her wrist and pulled away from him. She couldn't get him wet, not even a little bit; she couldn't risk it, not for a little thing like tears. Instead, she grabbed a pillow and buried her face miserably in that. Her shoulders shook with every muffled sob, and Wheatley drew closer to her, unsure of what had brought on her sudden bout of helplessness. He grabbed her shoulders and held her as she cried, not sure of what else to do.

"Hey, hey! It's over, luv, whatever happened – it was just a dream! What-? Why don't you, erm, stop leaking, and tell ol' Wheatley what's got you in such a – a-" She'd removed a hand from around her middle and laid it on top of his on her shoulder. "Oh." He breathed, holding her tighter and resting his cheek on her shoulder.

He was so close to her, he could just make out her faint mumblings. He ducked his head towards her so that her lips were at his ear.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, I didn't – God, I'm so sorry, I never meant…"

He laughed rather nervously. "What are you apologizing for? You – you've done nothing wrong!"

He winced – his attempt at comforting her only made her state worsen. She leapt from the couch, away from him and over to the window, arms still wrapped loosely around her middle. He turned towards her, still on the couch, afraid to move any closer to her.

"Chell." He said, softly, leaning forward, "It's me, and whatever you dreamed about – and I have a fairly good idea about what – it's done, and it's never coming back, ever, ever again. I _promise_."

The woman at the window grimaced, placing a hand at her mouth. "It's not – I know. I know, Wheatley." She hiccupped, still looking away from him. "It's not about… that."

"Then what?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but thought better of it. She couldn't get that _image_ out of her head, and that sickening feeling that it was _her_ fault, _she_ did that to him. She killed him, she'd wanted him dead –

No.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. His eyes were an unnatural blue, alive and well, and he and Chell were closer now than they'd ever been in that poison place. Things were so different now… but that didn't change the past.

She didn't respond; she couldn't.

"Chell, you don't have to –" he stopped suddenly as she gathered herself and strode towards him. She was acting unusual, how was he supposed to react but by sitting there and waiting to see what happened?

She stopped in front of him and stooped over, pressing her lips to his forehead. She held them there for a moment before breaking away.

He merely sat there, dumb-founded as he watched her dart up the stairs. He wanted to call her back, he wanted her to explain and he wanted her to know that whatever had her so upset, it was going to be fine!

But she was gone…

* * *

><p>Chell locked her bedroom door and took a small leather bound book out of the top drawer of the bedside table. She searched around for a pen for a moment before settling on her bed, cross legged with the book in her lap, hunched over as she wrote:<p>

_'Not a second goes by that I don't regret every moment of that day…'_


	15. Diary

'Not a second goes by that I don't regret every moment of that day. Not the friendly, warm moments, but the obvious, blaring painful ones that seemed to make up the majority of our time together.

I used to think that it was cruel and pointless, when She let me out, to wander the Earth alone. She knew there was no one left, or at least, no one I could find. Sure, if I searched long and hard enough, maybe I could find someone, if there's anyone left. I used to hate it, being alone, being the last one, being _alive_. What was freedom if there was no one to share it with, no one to celebrate with? But I overcame that, and it brought me here, to this little house in the middle of nowhere, living with an android – my closest friend.

It's almost frightening to think that those horrible moments that give me nightmares have blossomed into these wonderful ones – but it's a funny kind of frightening, like the bottoms-up sensation of falling sideways through a portal, or being flung through the air by a Aerial Faith Plate. It's a _nice_ feeling, being able to sit in complete silence with him as he rambles on about the complete silence we're experiencing, and not be scared.

Sometimes I find it hard to believe any of it happened. It's easy to imagine that we've been this way all of our existence, that there was no Aperture, that there was no War that brought my species to an end, that there was nothing wrong with any of this, and this was the way it had been, forever. But he's proof that whatever my imagination's telling me, it isn't true. He makes me forget it all, but he's also the only reason I remember any of it. He's his own little paradox, in a way.

But I suppose it's best. Something tells me that it would be wrong, dangerous somehow, to forget everything that happened. If not for me, then for him. I'm not sure what makes me feel that way, but I feel I _owe_ it to him, at least to remember.

It's not all bad, remembering. Yes, there were some truly _awful_ things that happened, and yes, it still hurts to remember. But there were also some rather wonderful moments that a piece of me doesn't want to lose. Meeting him, that definitely tops the list, especially considering where we are now. I would never want to lose that, and if having met him, having been woken up in that God-forsaken Cryo Chamber by the robot that would turn out to be the man I'd happily share the rest of my life with, meant a _million_ years of testing, I'd grab the gun and trot happily on to the next chamber.

It's a little funny, that. I'm _more_ than ashamed for it, and God knows I'd never admit it, but _this_, this little life we've built for ourselves, I never imagined, back there, that we'd end up like this. When he was guiding me through the decrepit facility, down half-crumbling catwalks and down pitch black corridors, I had no intention of taking him with me. As we were carrying out his escape plan, I was formulating a plan of my own. Once we were finally free, I did _not_ want him with me. No matter how kind he had been, he was just another part of That Place to me, and I was ready to take off at the first ray of real sunlight and leave him wherever we got out.

I had a hunch that I could outrun him, once we were free because, good God, he was terrible on his feet. What would one expect, when he'd been sitting up on that rail his whole life? But, I noticed when he fell on top of me in a tangle of limbs, once off his rail, his legs were next to useless until he really got the hang of walking, which seemed like it would take quite some time. So of course I could take off like a shot the moment we got out, and never have to see him again.

But that was before the core transfer. The first one, I mean. After that, after I woke up in the dirt and the fire under who knows how many miles of earth, in lower Aperture, he meant less to me than the damned turrets did.

He doesn't know it, but those first few months, once I realized that being with him was the happiest I'd ever been, that he was _so much more_ than just a part of That Place… When I cried in front of him, this was the first time, he thought it was because of Mashy Spike Plates and Neurotoxin and him. But it was because of the things _I_ had done to him, not vice versa.

For one, I never caught him. He _could_ have died coming off that machine. Who was to say? I was just about as clueless to it as he was, and I remember being distinctly frightened when he said that. I'm honest with myself – I _did_ try. As he hurtled towards me from nearly twenty feet above my head, I honestly thought the Gun would hold him or, at the very least, break his fall. That doesn't, however, change the fact that I did _not_ catch him.

But what hurts the most is knowing that, in that space of time between somewhere in Lower Aperture and my return to the modern testing track, I had thought it was a _great_ idea to let GLaDOS short Him out with a Paradox. To me, it was the best idea in the world, if it meant He was dead afterwards.

It hurts more now, having actually written it out. It's nothing short of monstrous. Everything I hated about Him is reflected, right there in that sentence, in me. I'm sorry.

I can't say it enough. I tell him every chance I get, but he just smiles and laughs and asks "What for, luv?" every time. I can't bring myself to say it, even now.

And even after the testing, His testing, I had no intentions of helping him. She had this wonderful plan: One year in the incinerator, one year in Cryogenic Storage, ten years in the room She built where all the robots scream at you, for him. Freedom for me. Nothing could have been more accommodating.

But it's not like I didn't notice that something was _very_ wrong with him. He wasn't himself, and his earlier words began to eat away at me, about the Itch. Every time that thought struck a nerve with me, that maybe he was as trapped as I was, but then He'd shove me into another chamber for some sick pleasure that still gives me the creeps, and the thought was whisked away as fast as it had come.

It wasn't until we were face to face with the room literally exploding around us that I understood just how badly he'd been hurt. He was screaming at me, but none of the hurt or fear in his voice was lost in the volume. Every accusation that he punctuated with another bomb, he honestly believed. He honestly thought I'd played him the entire time, that I thought he was a moron, inadequate, broken. He thought that I'd hoped he'd die falling off the rail, that I hadn't cared – or worse, was _happy_ – when she'd crushed him, that I'd found him a nuisance and nothing more than a means of escape, and that I'd finally gotten sick of him and was trying to kill him. And the worst part was, he was right. To a degree.

I hadn't thought he was a moron at first. To be honest, if I'd been alone, testing with Her again, I would have just tried to shut her down the way I had the first time. I would have ridden out the tests and made it right to Her chamber, and done I don't even know what. But _he_ knew! He had this brilliant plan, and he knew how to make it happen, even if he wasn't the _best_ at hacking. I won't say it wasn't there from the beginning, because it was, but whatever it was, it didn't make him an idiot. It only made him more Human, to me. But the moment he was connected to the Chassis, I saw how it changed. It was like, whatever it was, programming or hardware or whatever, it was all _dragged_ to the surface. It was like every part of him that he hated the most, that he'd tried _so hard_ to suppress, was amplified, mixed with something else, something darker. Something of _Hers_ that was more paranoid and more corrupt than he'd ever been.

Despite the increasing paranoia, he came to most of the right conclusions, but for all the wrong reasons.

No, I hadn't planned any of this and I sure as Hell hadn't planned on working with Her. But I realized, as I dodged the bombs, that I _had_ been using him, pretty shamelessly, too.

But I _hadn't_ cared when She'd nearly killed him. Sure, there was a pang of pity, but not nearly as strong as it should have been. I was so concerned with the Tests, the empty incinerator hatch She was going to drop me down, too preoccupied with being plunged back into my own little Hell. But I knew I could handle the tests. He, on the other hand, was lying up there in the rubble an inch from death, and I was nonplussed.

And then, there I was, flying through portal after portal, up on the catwalk with the intent of doing… what, to him? Killing him? _Saving_ him? I could still do it, I could still save him, try to make up for the way I'd treated him, try to make the way I'd hurt him go away. All it required was a push of a button…

And then I remembered _why_ I was there, and not already on the surface in the sunlight and the breeze and the real air. I remembered how close I'd been to freedom, and then how close I was to death.

For someone who was built specifically to make terrible decisions, that was a pretty well laid trap.

I was angry again, and any idea of saving anyone but myself went flying out the window. To Hell with him. To Hell with GLaDOS and Caroline, to Hell with Cave Johnson and all of Aperture. To Hell with Science, to Hell with Testing, to Hell with bombs and buttons and the gun that was still within reach. I was done playing fair, I was done caring about these _things_ that weren't even really alive.

When I saw my chance, I took it. It was probably the stupidest thing I've ever done, with the exception of letting Aperture put me in an orange jumpsuit. He was sucked out of the room and I literally went flying after Him. He was the only thing that tethered me to Earth, to _life_ and He asked me to let go.

And then the tables were turned. Suddenly, he wasn't connected anymore and _I_ was the one keeping _him_ from hurtling into the black nothingness of space. He began pleading with me, he told me to hold him tighter, not to let go.

The only difference was, it was _my_ grip, not his, that connected us.

It wasn't an accident, I let him go. In that second that my fingers released from his wrists and I saw the unnatural blue of his irises constrict to pin points, something gnawed at the back of my mind, chorusing with him, "Grab him, grab him, grab him," and I didn't.

I didn't regret it, then, and I don't know if I do now. It might sound terrible, but with everything that happened, if I'd held on, would we be where we are now? I like where we are now. I never thought I'd be so comfortable, so _happy_ with him. I don't remember ever being this content, not even in the vague memories of sensations from before Aperture. I know I must have had some sort of life before testing, but I can't imagine what it could have been like, if it wasn't like this.'

The door clicked shut from downstairs, startling Wheatley. He closed the small book with a snap and stuck it back in the night stand drawer, pulling his charging cable out and slamming the drawer closed. That had to be the worst thing he'd ever read. It confirmed everything he once thought was true – she hadn't cared – and to be honest, it made him feel like he was in fatal overload, as he made down the steps to greet Chell.

She smiled and hugged him, and he returned the gesture as she asked him if he wanted to go out to the small field they'd found earlier in the week – the weather was beautiful. He grinned tightly and nodded, afraid to speak until he'd gotten all his emotions in order. He shouldn't have read that, she told him not to, and now he knew why. A part of him was hurt (A bit of a lie – most of him was hurt, after reading that) to think that she'd kept that from him for so long – longer, had he not snuck into her room and read it for himself.

But another part of him was somehow _calmed_ by her words. He didn't want to admit it to himself, or her, but the effects of the Chassis didn't exactly wear off easily. It'd been such a long time since he'd been connected to it, but he still had those nagging doubts, those terrible ideas and the looming paranoia embedded into his systems. Reading that simultaneously irritated and calmed it.

Once upon a time, she couldn't have cared less about him – She _had_ tried to kill him. But the diary entry was also so reassuring, hearing the way she talked about them, together.

He thought back to all those confused moments where she'd apologized senselessly, as he often did, and they suddenly made so much more sense. He hoped that her tears, the nights where she cried herself to sleep next to him, were sincere. He thought, maybe now she really _did_ care.

Slowly, he came to the conclusion that she must. Things were so different now, after all this time they'd had together. She cared for him, she did. She had to, after all this.

As they stepped off the porch into the enveloping sunlight, he glanced down at her hand, her fingers intertwining with his, her body angled slightly towards him in that comfortable resting stance she took near him.

He smiled softly.


	16. The Leak

Perhaps things would have gone differently if he'd arrived in the fall, before winter. Winter in the wheat field was fierce – blizzards froze the rampant crops of wheat, nearly shattering their husks and coating them in a fine layer of ice. The resulting feet of snow made it impossible for one to go outside, for fear of freezing to death or being snow-blinded.

If he hadn't arrived in the summer, but in the fall, before the first snow fall, where the ground was hard and the skies clear, perhaps they would have spent more time together in the beginning, being snowed in and Chell unable to travel, having no _need_ to travel, as she'd built her stores since last winter. Perhaps she wouldn't have left him alone in the middle of the summer days as she went scavenging, as the heat crept higher and higher in what seemed like an act of rebellion towards the people living again on the Earth.

She never minded the heat. The beat of the suns rays on her back, the feeling, was only reinforcement that this was _her_ life, _hers_, not under siege by any omnipotent maniac. She thought bitterly back to those few select chambers where she was blessed with Hard-Light bridges, a gift, she'd thought at the time, a small mercy and a reminder as to what she was striving towards; she hadn't listened to Her – she rarely did – and she _had_ pressed her cheek against the deceptively cool-blue bridge.

It had felt _spectacular._ Honestly, truly indescribable, and she knew then that the surface couldn't be as bad as She'd told her it was, not if it had sunlight. Her determination had increased tenfold in that moment. If for nothing else, if not for freedom or safety, she was getting to the surface for _sunlight_.

It was something she loved most about the surface, the weather. It was fresh, real, and not synthesized like in that place. Rain, snow, wind and _real_ air, it was all so natural, she couldn't not love it. To go out in the middle of the summer night, the warm breeze brushing her hair back gently and the cool rain falling from the heavens, splattering pleasantly against her skin. It was simply magical, and she loved every moment of it – even the dangerous weather, the ferocious blizzards and the terrible heat.

But the heat brought another trick of the weather with it. It was difficult to tell when it would happen, especially in her earlier days of freedom, but occasionally the hot weather would bring with it dark rolling rain clouds that filled the sky and blotted out the sun.

Wheatley remembered the first time it happened. It was some months after she'd taken him in, and she had been out, that day, miles and miles away looking for a spare part in some hardware store or another. Broad daylight and somewhere around two o clock in the afternoon, it had started. It wasn't like Wheatley wasn't already well acquainted with rain – it had rained on his first night on the surface, and a few times since. But that day, as he sat there waiting for her to return home, he stared out the window, and the first little drop fell, against the glass dividing his safe haven from the hash outside world. It was only a drop, no bigger than his thumbnail as it splattered itself against the window, but it had startled him. It was rather a violent thing, the way if flung itself from its perch in the overcast sky directly at him. And what had he done? So he turned away from the window, uncaring for a moment.

Soon, others followed, angry at the house and assaulting it with their tiny bodies, making clean little pitter-patter noises against the roof and windows.

Wheatley glanced nervously at the clock: two thirty. There was still another two hours before Chell came home. He took a deep, steadying breath and reassured himself that the water was safely outside. She'd promised him that first time, he was safe. He laughed nervously to no one as he sat in the living room; the tumult on the roof intensified, picking up speed and volume.

Uncomfortably, he sunk into the chair, clutching the pillow at his side a little tighter as the first roll of thunder echoed through the empty house. A small whimper escaped his lips, followed by another nervous chuckle.

He wished she'd come home.

* * *

><p>Chell ran through the rain, holding a small plastic shade over her eyes to keep the rain from blinding her. It was really coming down, now, and the wind was howling, bending the already-weary stalks of grain. She, however, stood erect in the field, and was able to see the house, a dot on the horizon of the flat land.<p>

Thunder rolled through the black clouds overhead, causing her to duck and rush on, wanting to get home as soon as possible, out of the terrible weather. She loved the weather, the rain especially, but she was no fool. She knew that there was a line between enjoyable, beautiful even, and dangerous. As lightning flashed through the clouds again, she knew this storm had crossed that line.

Standing besides her self concern was pity, a concern for the mechanical man that she'd left so early in the morning. He probably hadn't stopped pacing the house, making sure that all the doors and windows remained shut, since the rain started earlier.

She threw the door open and slammed it shut, simply happy to be home. She shed the plastic wrap she wore like a dead skin. She'd found it in the old, half-crumbling convenience store on what used to be Palm road in the city, and the packaging it had come in called it a rain poncho. A picture on the front depicted a woman wearing it a bit like a jacket and, as the rain began to splash against the once-automatic doors of the shop, she figured she would do best to wear it on her trek home. She smiled as she stuffed the thing, dripping, into the sink. She had been right. Furthermore, the poncho had kept her almost completely dry – a bit of a miracle, she thought, taking a mental note that she'd have to find more of those. The only bits of her that were wet were easily dried off – hands and face, and her hair was a bit damp, but a few minutes in the warm house would easily take care of that.

As the rustling of the plastic garment in the sink stopped, and the tick-tock of the clock filled the space, she found she was missing something. A good amount of something actually: Wheatley. She turned, peering into the living room. This was an unprecedented amount of time that she was home without him rushing to her.

The electricity flickered, plunging the kitchen into a moment of ashen darkness and the wind rapped against the windows. Just for good measure, she checked them before heading further into the house.

Everything was dark and cold and lonely. Just like it had been before him.

"Wheatley?" she called through the house. Going through the halls, she saw that all the doors were closed. Another flash of lightning illuminated the house.

It started out a breathy whine, a small noise that came from _her bedroom_. Curiously, she pushed the door opened to be greeted by a clashing mixture of thunder and his increasingly desperate cries.

He was curled in a ball at the foot of her bed, arms thrown protectively over his head and his knees drawn up to his chest. His whole body trembled as he shouted aggressively at the storm raging outside. "_I'M SAFE! I'M SAFE IN HERE AND NOTHING'S GOING TO HAPPEN BECAUSE SHE PROMISED! SHE TOLD ME THAT THE HOUSE, THE WALLS, THE WOOD, IT'D ALL KEEP OUT THE WATER AND I'M FINE!_"

His volume decreased with the slow retreat of the thunder, as if it suddenly found the terrified robot too formidable of an opponent and decided not to argue.

She moved to his side and kneeled by him, as he was unaware of her presence. "Wheatley," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. He gave an involuntary twitch at her touch and shuffled away before realizing that it was her. He leapt up and, on his knees, draped himself over her. "Oh, thank god you're back – It's absolute _Hell_ out there, the whole place is coming right apart!"

"It's fine, I told you, I told you, you're safe." She said, prying his arms from around her neck. He cringed again as electricity crackled outside. She pulled him onto her bed and sat next to him; she let him hold her, and just rocked back and forth with him.

His eyes were wide and his irises were pinpricks as he looked at her, fearful. "It's – It's absolutely _disastrous_ out there!"

"I _promise_. The house is going to keep the rain out."

The bed was small and hardly offered enough space for two people to sleep comfortably, but he held her as they lay there. She listened to the steady rhythm of the rain interspersed with his quiet whimpers that came less frequently now, not daring to move so much as a muscle. Doing so would upset the balance they'd achieved, quite literally, as either one of them was currently at risk of falling right off the mattress. Besides, he felt safer close to her and he was at ease. Frankly, she was too, she thought as the rain and the comfortable pressure of his arm around her middle lulled her to sleep.

Mornings usually brought bright sunlight and the sound of Wheatley's clatter from downstairs. But as Chell breathed deeply and opened her eyes for the first time the next morning, she saw the current state of the house couldn't have been any different. There was no sunlight, despite her watch – she'd fallen asleep fully clothed – telling her that it was nearly eight o clock in the morning. Wheatley still lay beside her, half-draped on top of her with his face buried in the crook of her neck. She turned slightly to look at him: his eyes were screwed shut and his grip on her was just a tad tighter than it was before she'd fallen asleep.

She reached up and back and ran her hand through his hair. "You okay?" she whispered over the din of the rainfall outside.

"It hasn't stopped." He reported quietly. "It usually stops, after a few hours."

"It'll stop, it has to," she said, her voice edge with a laugh as she tousled his hair. "Can't rain forever. And even if it does..." she chuckled. How many times had she told him?

"Nothing's going to happen." He repeated, almost automatically. There was something in his voice that told her that he didn't quite believe his own words. She fidgeted for a moment and he released her, allowing her to turn over on her side, facing him. He looked at her perplexed for a moment before she curled towards him, snuggling into his chest. It was a bit of a surprise, but he settled back down after a moment, lowering his arm back over her.

She was so confident that the hell outside would stay there, he thought as he looked down at her. He rested his chin of the crown of her head and stared out the window at the torrents that fell from the heavens. "God, I hope you're right." He sighed as they lay together.

The rain didn't stop that day. There were spaces of time when the steady downpour lightened, and others when it slowed to a drizzle, but it would always pick up again, assaulting the house in all its ferocity. Chell caught him glancing nervously out the windows at several points in the day. Even she had to admit, it hadn't rained this much since she'd been on the surface, herself. Nor had it rained for this long, she realized as the rains persisted into their third, fourth, fifth day.

Soon, she began to share his nervous glances. It had been raining for seven days straight. Even she was unsure of what was going on, and she'd witnessed most of what Michiganhad to throw at her. Rain, sleet, sludge, mud, heat – you name it. But never anything _quite_ like this.

After the electrical storm, when she came home to find him a nervous wreck, frightened and alone, she refused to go out in such foul weather. She'd convinced herself that she had enough stores to last her until the unusual amount of rain let up – it couldn't last _that_ much longer. He rarely left her side during the rainstorm, often sleeping with her in that cramped-but-strangely-cozy position on her bed, or huddled close to her on the couch. She found it endearing that he felt anchored by her, safe with her near, and she allowed his closeness, utterly comfortable with it.

On the tenth day of rain, once the torrents had subsided into mild drizzles, She looked out from the kitchen, into the living room to see Wheatley staring at the ceiling.

"What are you looking at?" she laughed. He was just standing there, with his face turned up towards the ceiling.

"The roof is changing color. Is it supposed to do that?" he announced.

Chell wiped her hands free of the residual potato dirt and went to join him in the living room. Indeed, the ceiling was changing color in one concentrated area – it was going from a light, pleasant eggshell to a dismal gray like the skies outside. Grimacing, she pulled him out from under the spot.

"Don't stand under that," she told him, pulling his arm and dragging him out from under the spot. She got a chair out of the kitchen and prodded at it with him watching apprehensively at her feet.

"What is it, luv?"

She shifted uncomfortably, her feet nearly shuffling off of the chair she stood on. She wanted to pretend like she hadn't heard him and go on about her business, but he was right there, for God's sake, and it's not exactly like he was soft-spoken or anything. She looked down for a moment and sighed. "A leak."

The reaction was immediate: he stumbled backwards, nearly knocking her over and falling over the coffee table all at once. Chell's chair rocked precariously as she struggled to steady it and Wheatley threw himself into a full blown panic, rambling at the speed of light about how she had been wrong and something had definitely happened. She sighed tiredly and told him to stay clear of the spot on the ceiling as she took a tarp and a bucket and went into the attic to stop the leak, at least momentarily. She'd fix the ceiling afterwards, and the rain would stop in a few days, but it would be several more months before Wheatley let her hear the end of it about the leak.


	17. Untouched

It wasn't until noon that they moved from that spot on the ground, where he'd woken her up out of the mud and wheat and ashes of their home. She hadn't wanted to let go of him, not just yet. Neither one of them dared move, but his lips at her ear reminded her every so often that they 'really should figure out…' He would never tell her what. He didn't need to. Their home stood in a broken heap of charred wood and ashes before them. It was _abundantly_ clear that they needed to move, to salvage what they could and find an alternative shelter, even if it was only temporary.

If she could have sat there with him for the rest of eternity, she would have. It just felt right. But he untangled her arms from around him and pulled her to her feet. "We have to. You know we do, Chell." He said, looking her in the eye.

For a fleeting moment, she felt a child-like helplessness. It was a foreign feeling for her, and she can't say she liked it very much. Her jaw set and her watery eyes hardened at the thought of the days ahead. A million questions flashed through her mind at once: Where were they going to stay? What if they _couldn't_ find shelter? What about Wheatley's charging cable?

Her breath caught, her eyes widened, and she immediately broke from his arms and ran to the remains of the house, leaving him in a bit of a stunned surprise at her sudden vigor.

She tore through the fallen wood to get inside the house, stumbling over debris and causing a fair amount of damage to her exposed skin as the jagged, brittle wood raked across it.

Oh, the house.

Her mad quest for his cable only met a momentary hesitance as she saw the state of the house. There was no doubt about it: they were going to have to find somewhere… anywhere but here…

What little furniture they had was mostly charred beyond recognition. The couch, once fluffy and green and comfortable, had been reduced to nothing more than a burnt wood frame and some springs. Doors hung off hinges and the stairs… her foot plunged through one of the weaker steps. Thank god she caught herself on the banister, or else she might not have been able to walk to… wherever they were going to go.

It was only a short sprint from the top of the stairs to her bedroom, where she kept the cable. It had previously been in his care, but it kept getting lost, turning up in odd places, getting lost again. It was when it'd disappeared for five days straight, the important sixth day approaching fast, that he'd put it in her custody.

She tore the door off its hinges – not as impressive of a feat as it sounded, since most of what was left of her door was slightly drooping down to the floor anyway. She pulled up short, drinking in what used to be her bedroom. Oh, it was a dismal sight. Whites and grays and burnt blues, dirty browns and the faintest glow of red that still hung about the brass lamp that stood dutifully on her night table.

Tears pooled behind her eyes as she dropped to her knees in the ashes in front of her night stand, the polished mahogany wood burnt and lacking its previous luster, but otherwise completely fine.

"Chell? Are you… are you up here – Oh, _bugger_." He hissed as she heard the dry crack of the stair collapsing beneath his foot. "Chell?"

She remained silent. He'd find her, but if she opened her mouth to respond, she knew no sound would come out, anyway. Delicately, she slipped her hands into the drawer, seemingly untouched, her fingers wrapping gently around the cord, as if it were something resembling a vulnerable fledgling. She knew the cord's worth, what it meant for her friend, and she knew that it was more valuable than the entirety of the house. Its survival was key, nothing else. As she brought it to her chest with shaky hands, a sense of utter safety enveloped her. Everything was going to be just fine.

She let out one shaky laugh that was nearly drowned in an involuntary flood of tears of relief as he came to the door. There was the shuffle of dry wood from behind her. She turned her head a fraction of a degree at the noise, to acknowledge that he was there. "Would you look at that," he said, his voice hushed in awe. "Untouched."

It was quick thinking that had saved them that night. The house, unfit for living, what with the gaping holes in the ceiling and the collapsible floors, had to be abandoned.

He tugged her gently through the wheat field as she looked back at the life she'd built. The life that they had shared together, proudly announcing their triumphs, "Look what we overcame," now lying in a broken, disheveled mess in the middle of nowhere.

She pulled him in the direction of the city. Besides the Aperture Shed, which neither one of them was willing to go to for shelter, the city was the only thing she knew around here. It was their hope and salvation, at this point.

It wasn't such a bad idea, Wheatley pointed out as they walked the three hours to the city. She knew it was a reliable source for all those different things she needed, it had electricity most of the time, she wouldn't need to make the three hour trip once a week, there were plenty of places they could, 'make camp,' as he called it.

She watched as storm cloud rolled across the sky, shielding her eyes from the bright sun and gauging about how much time they had before the first few drops fell. She kept quiet, for his sake, though the way he'd keep reassuring her how they must be almost there, she suspected he had a pretty good idea of what would happen if they didn't find shelter soon.

The city soon appeared as a dot on the horizon; the sky was covered by a thin layer of clouds that would occasionally hide the sun. They'd had to make a run for it, still a mile or two outside city limits when the first ominous roll of thunder announced itself. Wheatley had cringed, freezing in his tracks as he took a self assessment: not electrocuted. Good.

As he looked up, he saw that Chell was already a few yards ahead, and he figured why not, and took off.

Out of breath and laughing so hard her sides hurt, Chell and Wheatley arrived at what would be their shelter for the night: an old drug store. Sure, the front windows had been all but punched out, but the back of the store was still safe for them. Small, well-rationed, and _safe_.

"Soon, luv. We'll find a real house with windows and carpets, a proper home, and everything'll be fine." He said as she plugged him in for the night, sliding the small silver lead gently into the port on the back of his neck before he dropped off.

She curled up next to him, resting her head on his shoulder, and followed him into a deep sleep.


	18. Forgiveness

After those stolen moments in her room with her book, he realized that something had changed in her.

With a jolt of fear, he wondered if she knew. There was an inkling, lodged in the back of his mind that she somehow knew that he'd read her tiny book, her utmost inner secrets and the most forbidden of things in the house, including glass cups, which he had a tendency of breaking. Guilt twisted his insides every time she looked away from him. Why did she have to be so difficult to read? Why couldn't she just come out and say it, look him in the eye and tell her she was mad at him for reading her tiny book? Or maybe she was avoiding him because she was mad. Oh, he didn't think of that.

Maybe she was waiting for him to admit it. That was definitely a possibility, he thought, as he watched her at the kitchen table. She sat there, a thick white mug in her hands, sipping on the strong black liquid she liked to make in the morning. She'd been up since three, he'd heard her scream herself awake from her room across from his. He hadn't said anything; last time he went to check on her, she'd collapsed into his arms and cried herself into exhaustion, and didn't move from bed for the rest of the day. It had scared him half to death, and he certainly didn't want a repeat of that incident. If she was better off working through her night terrors alone, he'd leave her to it.

He figured she was immeasurably tired – she hadn't gotten a full night's sleep since that first time she'd had the nightmare, waking up and letting tears slip down her cheeks. It was unsettling, seeing her so frightened like that – not even in all their days in the facility had he seen her so shaken.

He took the seat across from her and she looked up at him with tired eyes, as if she only half-registered that he was there. He noticed it now – her bottom lip quivered and she quickly looked away.

He leaned forward across the table and she sat back in her chair. "Luv?" he reached out and took her coffee cup from her, removing her ability to answer noncommittally into her cup, removing any excuse to avoid him. "You've been like this for weeks. What's wrong?"

"Just tired." She answered monotonously, her voice barely above a whisper.

Well that much was obvious. She had dark rings under half-lidded eyes reminiscent of those that were present after he'd woken her from a _nine hundred year_ sleep. Her hair was wild, despite being pulled back into the usual pony tail, and her lips were pressed into a firm line.

"Because of the nightmares," he stated. She nodded. "Well there's the problem. Stop having the nightmares and you'll feel loads better."

She shook her head. "It's not that simple," she said, her eyes widening, fearful. She opened her mouth to further her argument, but after taking a deep breath, clamped her jaw firmly shut and averted her eyes from him again.

He thought back to the little entry he'd read. Could that be the source of such discomfort for Chell, the woman who'd killed _Her_? The idea almost seemed laughable. Perhaps it was, Wheatley thought, as he felt a twinge of shame. He wasn't the best at deductive reasoning, for obvious reasons. But it was the most he had to go on, so why not?

He stared long and hard at her, and the way she squirmed uncomfortably in her chair meant she knew he was watching her. He saw the way she ducked her head away from him, her hands folded in her lap and her shoulders crunched upwards. Her lips twitched every so often, as if she was on the verge of saying something. She never did. She seemed meek, she seemed too trusting, eager to please… This was not her.

This was him. He recognized her state: he'd been trapped in its grip for months after his return to Earth. The sullen, shy demeanor, unwillingness to confront her housemate directly. He remembered how relieved he'd be when she declared she was going out of the house (only to regret being alone once she was gone) and he noticed that she was out more than usual, now.

He realized that whatever she was feeling, whatever caused her to wake up, screaming, in the middle of the night, it wasn't anger. It was guilt. His mind traveled back to the entry. Words popped into his mind as he looked at her: Regret, ashamed, monstrous. I'm sorry. All the same words that had flit through his mind in his first few months with her.

She'd described herself as ruthless in her writing, someone who hadn't cared whether or not Wheatley lived or died and, in fact, would have preferred the latter once upon a time. It seemed to him now that these restless weeks were her own flow of guilt at everything that had happened at the facility.

He stood immediately and strode around the table, kneeling at her side.

She did all she could to keep her from bolting the moment he settled himself on the floor next to her. A quick glance showed his features, soft and serious, looking up at her expectantly. "I read it, Chell." He said, quietly. This was mad. This was completely bonkers, and he was only going to upset her more.

She forced herself to look at him. "Read what?" her eyes had gone wide again.

The look on her face made him not want to say it, but he had to give it a go, in hopes of fixing her. "Your little leather bound book."

She was up before he'd even finished the sentence, bolting around the table and trying to flee back up the stairs.

He stood and stumbled around the chairs and was able to catch her before she made it to the foot of the stairwell. She struggled half-heartedly, and only for a moment, resigned to the fact that his robotic grip was rather unbreakable when he wanted it to be.

She half slumped in his grip and bowed her head against his arms. "I'm sorry." She breathed. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think – never thought… this, I didn't know. I would never – not now! I'm sorry!" she pitched forwards out of the sheer force of her pleas, and he gently brought them to the ground, resting against the first step.

"I know." He said, his voice steady and quiet, and full of understanding. He'd been in her place, and he knew it was a dark one, where you constantly doubted yourself and came to the same conclusion over and over, and knew that you didn't _deserve_ to be forgiven, but that was all you sought, all you worked towards and all you could think about was _why._ _Why_ you had to ask for forgiveness in the first place, _what_ you'd done wrong, what you could have done differently. It was torture.

He brushed her loose hair out of her face and released her, remaining huddled on the floor. "And I forgive you."


	19. Moving Day

The weather raged on and off for the next few days after they found their temporary shelter. Food, electricity, and a dry place to wait was all they needed. Less, except for the fact that Wheatley only had a four day's charge left. And after the night she spent in the field, she wasn't willing to take any chances. They'd salvaged what they could from the rubble, but it wasn't much. Besides what had been in the fireproof night table, there was an array of silverware and a handful of other nick knacks. Even the old science textbook had been charred beyond recognition.

She'd brought them to that old convenience store she'd found. She knew it was a reliable place to go for resources, and it had ultimately been the first thing that popped into her head as they ran from the oncoming storm. He'd helped her gather an assortment of things – blankets, sleeping bags, curtains, anything soft, all in a heap against the back wall, farthest from the broken front window, where the rain poured steadily in. It wasn't enough to penetrate the back of the store, she made sure of that, but the howling winds were making it cold and difficult to seep, even nestled within the multicolored nest of sheets. Wheatley crawled in next to her, handing her the lead of his cord, which was already plugged into the wall. He slung an arm around her before he 'clocked out' as he called it, telling her that whatever little warmth she could get from his running CPU would do her good.

She faced him and reached behind his head to plug him in for the night. He gave her a light smile before his eyes closed, the gentle hum from his chest slowing to a steady, comfortable rhythm. She leaned against him, trying to rest her mind. The layers of cloth that encased the two of them was enough to trap their collective body heat and warm her freezing limbs. The wind continued to howl outside and the rain beat against the building, but it was enough to lull her asleep, safe and warm in his arms. Despite the overwhelming worry, the looming idea of the relentless rains and needing to find somewhere to live, she could feel a soft smile on her lips before she fell asleep.

* * *

><p>She woke him up the next morning, around ten, pulling the silver from his port and helping him groggily to his feet. She made breakfast of a can of soup, using and old Bunsen burner to heat it. Wheatley re-appeared from the aisles, grinning wide as she finished the last spoonful. "What took you so long?" She asked, still smiling as she lifted the plastic spoon to her mouth. She knew he'd stood between the aisles, trying to gather courage to peek and see if the rain had stopped. He was worried to death that it was going to be soaking wet out there, and possibly as well as in the store, and she'd heard his quiet muttering from behind one of the shelves that had acted as a barrier between them and the elements.<p>

"Convinced the rain to stop." He said, nonchalantly, and she snorted into the can, nearly choking on the last of her breakfast. Once she regained herself, she stood, grabbing up a rucksack she'd carelessly thrown in the pile last night in her bid to keep warm.

Good thing, too. Who knew how long they'd be out today? She'd never wandered too far into the city, keeping to the outskirts and making sure she could make it back by nightfall. The thoughts of the old home sent pangs of sadness through her as she stuffed the pack with necessary materials – water, non perishables, small tools and whatever electrical parts she could find that weren't soaking wet. God knew they'd need them – even if Wheatley wasn't broken or sparking anymore, just the natural wear and tear of being an android on the surface – it had become painfully clear that he had not been built for life outside the facility – was promise enough that he would need parts replaced. And with all the spare parts she'd stockpiled over the years gone, just like that…

She glanced sideways at him as he stood two aisles down, talking interestedly to a small toy parrot, who methodically repeated everything he said in and obnoxious, high-pitched squeal. A sigh escaped her lips. He'd be fine, especially once they found somewhere dry and safe. Chances are, in a city like this, that were was at least one manufacturing facility, and maybe she could even get the tools to fix him proper, to stop that dry buzz that occasionally accompanied the gentle hum in his chest and caused him pain. She made two checklists in her head:

The clicking in his wrist.

Dried fruit, pliers, fuses.

That one impossible fuse that refused to cooperate under any circumstances for more than a few days.

Peanut butter, honey, screwdriver.

The way his shoulder locked, occasionally.

Dried beef, water, electrical tape.

From across the room, she could hear him and that blasted bird, and she could hear the edge of annoyance in his voice as he tried to get it to stop repeating him. She smiled gently; he was such a child.

Eventually, she interrupted his extremely one-sided argument announcing that it was time to go. The toy parrot, seeing its chance, mimicked her in the same two-octaves-too-high voice it had mocked Wheatley in. He started at it with pure hatred for a moment; she began to speak again, to urge him away from the bird, but found her companion's hand had clamped firmly over her mouth. He gave a shake of his head, telling her that she'd regret it.

They set off soon afterwards, leaving the little parrot by its lonesome again. The clouds had all departed and the sun now shone down on them, tuning the water that had soaked the black asphalt into humid vapor.

Chell recognized several familiar landmarks: the old plant nursery that had been taken over by its saplings long ago. The bank, doors locked tight, securing hundreds of thousands of useless bills. The water tower, half red with rust. She'd never passed the tower, until that day, never ventured so far into the city before.

It was scary, the empty buildings looming over you like skeletons, a constant reminder that something had gone very, very wrong. Even Wheatley sensed the eerie emptiness and, for once, fell silent, staying close to her as they trekked the lonely streets.

Chell hated to admit it, but she had to at least acknowledge that she had no idea where they were going. They were headed north, she was sure of that, as she sun peaked above them and slowly started its descent. There were several more hours of good sunlight – the summer days were long – but she was fearful that those hours wouldn't be enough. With the way they were wandering aimlessly about the streets, it could take several more _days_ for them to find a house.

Eventually, the buildings thinned out and gave way to a thin strip of road and surrounding foliage. She squinted at the brilliant sunset, golds and pinks and purples splashed across the canvas sky, a beautiful reminder that their time was running out. They'd been walking for eight hours straight, and they were due for a stop, but Chell was determined to use every last ray of sunlight to find their new home. She had to. They had to find shelter, they had to find somewhere to spend the night, or else they would have to spend the night outside. They couldn't. One night outside could mean her death. One scattered shower and it would mean his. She was determined; more determined than she ever was at the facility. When she was running the tests, she'd had to keep herself alive, but now she was responsible for the both of them. There was still hope. She was sure that this was the suburban north she'd read about in the spare newspapers she'd picked up in the city.

The sunlight was almost gone, the last straggling rays still clinging to the sky and letting them see their way. Chell broke out into a run, darting to the end of the foliage. The trees stopped abruptly, but the paved road continued. The road was flat and barren and stretched all the way till it disappeared over the edge of the Earth. There was nothing! Nothing else, she was so sure there were houses, apartments, anything, but there was nothing!

A wind rolled through the trees behind her and ruffled her clothes, reminding her of just how cold the nights here got. She shivered. At least there was no rain.

"Chell! Come back, look at this! I – I think I found it!" He sounded immeasurably excited and it was enough for her to turn her head.

He was standing off the road, in a clump of bushes where the leaves were particularly dense. He was holding back one branch and, in the quickly fading remains of daylight, she could just see the sculpted outline of a stone marker. The deep black carved letters announced the name of the development,StoneBridge, but she couldn't have cared less what the neighborhood was called. All that mattered was that there was shelter, a house.

As much as she would have liked, they didn't take the first house on the block. It was okay, though. There was shelter and neither one of them was in any immediate danger. They could take their time and choose a house.

A long time ago, people might have gone from house to house looking at the inside, deciding which house they liked best based off of cabinet color or what type of floor was in the living room. Chell didn't care for any of that. What she looked for was the essentials. A house on a hill, so it wouldn't flood, but not at the top. The idea of being up high, with nothing taller surrounding you made her chest hurt. Something sturdy, that wasn't going to crash down around them as they slept. Though the neighborhood was still in fairly good condition, it was obvious that it had gotten some bad weather, consequent damage and no one to repair it. Roofs were caved in on some houses, doors ripped off of others.

It took another twenty minutes, and the temperature dropped considerably in that time, but they found it: it was in near perfect condition and nothing Chell couldn't fix. Right smack in the middle of an entire block that was sloped on a hill and, frankly, pretty.

She kneeled in front of the front door with Wheatley leaning over her, his flashlight on. She didn't exactly like it – using his flashlight drained his battery almost twice as fast as normal, but she grit her teeth and told herself that they'd be inside in a little while and she'd put him right back on the cord.

He stood behind her, his eyes glowing an otherworldly white that smothered the already startling blue of his irises and lit the lock perfectly for her. She had to squint as the intense light reflected off of the metal doorknob, but took her screwdriver to it anyway. A few well placed hits and the lock popped right open. Granted, she wouldn't be able to lock the door for a few days until she fixed it, but it wasn't like they were exactly running the risk of a break in, were they?

She didn't have much recollection of her first life, and she certainly didn't remember how to go about buying a house, but she was sure that however society went about it, it wasn't like this, picking the lock on the front door by your android companion's built-in flashlight, helping him charge for the night, going in and throwing your half-empty rucksack on the couch, followed by yourself and calling it a day.

But, hey. It worked for her.

Welcome home.


	20. Preheat the Oven

Wheatley had known that the surface was better than Aperture by miles, but there were things he hadn't accounted for. For one, when he had broken Chell out of Cryo and they'd begun their escape, he'd come to terms with the fact that if they ever got out, they'd end up going their separate ways. Chances were she wouldn't want any reminders of that place, let alone one of their fully-functional AI's. The thought chilled his circuits. It meant he'd be alone again, after finally being free. To him, not much had improved if he was alone. But, at the time, he figured he would manage, that he'd be able to find civilization. He never thought, especially towards the back end of their adventure, that he would end up living with her. That alone was a blessing.

But there were other things he could never have imagined. His information files were limited, the men and women who had programmed him had never thought he'd make it all the way here, so there was really no need to give him any of the information about the surface. Even after he crash landed, he wasn't fully aware of what 'being on the surface' meant. It had taken him, admittedly, quite some time and a lot of Chell's patience to become accustomed to what was essentially his new home. There was so much of it, he was surprised that humans ever got used to it at all! Silly things like grass and dirt and beautiful things like rainbows and sunshine and trees and completely mind-boggling things like animals. He never knew there were so many.

But out of all of those things, he was almost positive that this was his favorite (He couldn't be sure, because he knew he hadn't seen _everything_ yet. But this was definitely up there.). It wasn't anything special, at least not to her. But it was simple things like this that reminded him that they were finally _free_.

There were those mornings, maybe once every two weeks, where she'd wake up and pull her hair back into a pony tail and get to work.

He would sit at the counter and talk as he watched her take all sorts of things and put them in a large aluminum bowl together and mix them about so that you couldn't even tell what was in there anymore. She'd take the resulting mess out – a large lump of yellowish-white – and roll it about on a bit of the counter that she sprinkled with some of the same white powder she'd put in the bowl. She'd flatten it and then roll it into a ball again, and then flatten it and then cut it in half and roll each half into a ball and he just sat there and watched. After a while, she'd put the yellowish-white stuff into a smaller tin and pop it in the oven. Some time later, out came some sort of food that made the entire house smell wonderful.

She woke up one morning, and came immediately into the kitchen, her hair already pulled back. Automatically, Wheatley was leaning against the counter, waiting for her to settle and begin.

First came the aluminum bowl, wobbling slightly on the flat countertop; then the water, yeast and honey, just as it happened every time. Wheatley would confidently say that he knew exactly how to make her bread, if anyone were to ever ask.

Chell paused, halfway through adding the salt. Wheatley stopped talking, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. He didn't quite understand why, but that look she was giving him certainly didn't make him want to say anything. For her to stop right in the middle of whatever she was doing was… apocalyptic.

She was the one who broke the awkward silence between them, and – to be _completely_ honest – it only confused him further. "Want to help?" she asked, casually.

The kitchen was strictly her territory – that had become _very_ clear when he had almost burnt and flooded the house at once. Ironically enough, he was a walking disaster when it came to anything electronic, and he'd watched her enough times to know that making bread involved using that fiery death box she called an oven.

He stuttered around his words for a moment, unsure of how to put it. "Erm… I—Yeah. Sure. Why not?" After all, Science wasn't about _why_ does she want your help. Science was about _why not_ give it a go until everything turns bottoms-up?

He came around the counter to join her, all smiles, she was, and a jittery mess of nerves he was. This won't end well, he reminded himself as he smiled back at her.

Chell told him that she needed to go out to the garage for a moment, and asked him to preheat the oven. He nodded, and she walked off.

The moment he heard the front door close he turned towards the oven. "Don't think I don't remember that little trick from last time, lady." He hissed. "Now, she's counting on me to get this done right. My job, you might say. So, none of that 'I think I'll have a good chuckle and try to set him on fire' business, this time. Just… get hot, I suppose. How does an oven get hot, anyway? All I remember from last time was a lot of heat, a lot of water, and a lot of pain. Didn't quite pay attention to how it all happened. Let's see…"

Chell was stooped over a brown burlap bag in the garage, thoroughly cleaned out and used as a sort of a store room. Since they weren't living smack in the middle of a wheat field anymore, she either had to make the three hour trip for flour, or she could take from the warehouses near the dock. Yes, the logical answer seems to be to take from the warehouses, but one must consider that individual bags of flour weighed upwards of fifty pounds. If it weren't for the fact that she was able to scavenge another old shopping wagon, the four bags of flour probably would have never made it home.

She was down to the last bag, and that was dwindling quickly. She was due for another trip into the inner city soon, anyway, so she'd tack it on to that trip. But for now, she sifted five cups of flour, closed the bag and went back to the kitchen.

He jumped when he heard the front door close again, and only had a moment to compose himself before she walked into the room.

"Did you preheat the oven?" she asked, dumping the flour into the mixer. Wheatley watched the white powder form a mushroom cloud over the bowl.

"Symbolism, that," he thought, bitterly. As she rinsed her hands under the tap, he began to explain to her: "I tried, luv. I did. But… Honestly. How on Earth am I supposed to get it in the microwave?"

Chell dried her hands and blinked at him before throwing her head back and laughing. It was the first time he'd heard her laugh like this. It was a magnificent sound, but it also left him confused and a tad hurt. She was laughing at him. Sure, she'd given a slight giggle once or twice while they were maneuvering the catwalks in their escape, but he'd wanted to make her laugh, make the situation a little less deadly. Here, she was just laughing at him and he didn't even know why.

He started up, ready to protest and argue that if she thought it was so funny, she could get that massive oven into the microwave herself, but then she set the bowl down and turned him around to face the oven.

She pointed to a set of buttons on what looked like the control panel for the device. One said "Bake," and the other said "Broil."

"This is what we use to preheat the oven." She said, pressing the former. The oven gave a couple of quick beeps and displayed a number, three hundred fifty. "You want to set it to four seventy five," she said, "So you press the up button until you get it." The number rose in increments of five until it hit four seventy five. It gave another little beep.

"Four hundred seventy five degrees Celsius?" he asked, appalled. "That'll burn the bloody house down!"

She gave him a funny look, still smiling. "That's Fahrenheit." She said, curtly, which made everything about what they were doing seem a lot less dangerous. He gave an embarrassed chuckle as she brought the bowl over to the counter. She dumped the contents onto the portion of the counter that was dusted with the white stuff and she divided it in half immediately. He watched her intently every time she did this, and dividing it in half before she mashed and beat it up was alarmingly uncommon.

_Plop!_ went the substance as she dropped it on the counter right in front of Wheatley. It was sad looking, now that he saw it up close, drooping and deflating and flattening of its own accord. It was probably sad, because it knew it was going to be mashed about and stuffed in a hot oven any second.

Chell was already at work, her fingers digging into the stuff, rolling it and turning it inside out. She glanced over at his piece, still sitting dejectedly in the white powder. "Go on," she said. "Work the dough."

Wheatley poked his sad looking ball of what was apparently dough. It left a dent. With another quick glance over at Chell, he began to copy her.

Her movements were so fluid. There was hardly any break in between as she kneaded the dough, no awkward movements. He looked at her every so often, comparing their work to see if he was doing it correctly.

Wheatley, on the other hand…

Chell glanced over at him as he dug his palms into the dough, quickly looking away. It was hard not to laugh – he had the utmost look of pity on his face and he kept apologizing to the lump of dough. His elbows stuck out at a ridiculous angle and the dough kept sticking to his fingers; he periodically stopped the kneading to try and wipe the dough off, only to have it stick to his other hand. Seeing his struggle, she sprinkled more flour on the counter and rubbed some on his hands.

He stared at them in confusion before continuing.

By the end of the day, they had two loaves of bread and an extremely messy Wheatley.

Apparently, at some point while they were baking, he had touched his face, because there was a white smudge that ran from the bridge of his nose to his jaw line. His glasses and pants were smudge with the same sticky white, but he didn't mind.

Yes, he decided, taking a deep breath. This was definitely his favorite thing about the surface.


	21. Carry Me

It was unbelievably dark in the corridor and it was a miracle that the building was still standing at all. His flashlight was all the light provided in the cramped space, but it was more than enough to light the way. The idea of him using his flashlight to guide her through the darkness of a condemned and dilapidated building in an escape made him smile inwardly. He liked the idea of being the hero that led her to freedom, of being useful and for her to depend on him. It made him feel like he was doing something right, for a change. He was walking behind her, keeping an eye on her gait as she walked by his light.

It happened entirely by accident, and the moment it did, that empowering 'hero' daydream melted away to reveal reality. Reality was that, even with her depending on his light to get out of the ramshackle building, his foot had caught in some rubble on the ground and, out of habit, he had looked down to see what he was stuck on.

There was a sickening crack as she fell to the ground. Wheatley spun around to see her crumple, fingers clutching blindly at her left leg. Her eyes were screwed shut, her face contorted in pain.

Wheatley had seen this happen before – the control groups testing the long fall boots, one would take a leap off of a high platform or come rocketing out a precariously placed portal. They'd land and the impact, he was told, snapped the bones in their legs, rendering them unable to walk.

She was still on the floor, trying to get herself in a less painful position.

It was shocking at first, but he knew he had to help. After trying to get her back on her feet, a very unsuccessful bid, he stared down at her, brow furred. Eventually, his face lit up and Chell could all but _see_ the light bulb go off over his head. "Oh, I know!" he declared, lowering himself to her side. He slipped one arm under the crook of her knees, sending a jolt of fiery pain through her leg. Yes, it was better than walking, but it still hurt like Hell. His other arm supported her back and before she knew it she was being lifted off of the ground.

"There we go!" he huffed, cradling her as he took off towards their house. He laughed nervously at her shocked expression. "Just like old times, eh? Except, just not, because _you_ were the one carrying _me_, and now _I'm_ carrying _you._ But other than that, just like old times. Oh, and, obviously, we weren't in the middle of a bloody city. That's important. And – you know what? It's not the _same_, but it's _similar._ Close enough."

Chell leaned her head against his shoulder and gritted her teeth. It was, in fact, very much like old times, save for the minor details. It was one of the few memories of that place that she not only tolerated, but thoroughly enjoyed.

_She stood under him, portal gun poised, her thumb on the small trigger button that would activate the gravity confusion field. He wanted her to catch him. Her heart hammered in her chest at his words; part of her didn't want him to disengage from the rail – the thought of losing the only friendly face she knew was unbearable. She saw the urgency, the fear etched into his features, and she couldn't help feeling some of that, too. He'd woken her up and now was risking his life to help her escape._

_"On three. Ready? One... Two..." he leaned forward in his chair a bit, peering down at her over the side. She gave a curt nod, telling him she was ready. He squeezed his eyes shut. "THREE! That's high. It's TOO high, isn't it, really, that…" He jerked back, leaning away from the edge of his chair as it sped away from her, as if he was afraid she was going to try and rip him from the rail itself. He looked sheepishly back at her. "Alright, going on three just gives you too much time to think about it. Let's, uh, go on one this time. Okay, ready?" He rolled towards her again, his eyes still closed. He took a deep breath. "ONE. !" _

_It was so sudden, it was scary. With a great thrust, he propelled himself from the perch that still hung dutifully from the ceiling. Wires that he'd disconnected hung limply over the edge of the stainless steel chair. _

_Chell clicked the tiny button, felt the jolt of energy as he entered the field and then heard a sickening clang as he landed face first on the ground. At first he didn't move, and she was fully willing to admit that it had scared the living daylights out of her. She was so sure he was dead, now, and that was it. Kaput. She was alone again. Then, slowly, he used his hands to push himself up. "Ow. Ow." He moaned, and she could see the sudden realization dawn over him. "I. Am. Not. Dead! I'm not dead!" he exclaimed, laughing in relief. Chell could still hear the remnants of fear lingering in his voice. _

_He pulled his knees beneath him and tried to stand. He raised himself up, spreading out his arms to help him balance. A wide grin settled itself on his face, proud to be standing for the first time in his life. He looked at her with that same triumphant gleam in his eyes. Wheatley stuck out a leg to take a step forward…._

_…and his knees promptly buckled underneath him, sending him in a crumpled heap back to the floor. "I can't move, though. That's the problem now."_

_Chell stifled a silent chuckle, turning her head in hopes he wouldn't see. He tried to pick himself up again and she helped him. She put on her best apologetic smile – she'd happily explain the false-mute act once they were safely outside of Aperture, and she would apologize profusely for failing to catch him. She'd had every intention to. The portal gun, on the other hand, hadn't._

_He accepted her outstretched hand with an out-of-breath thanks, and was back on his feet. He stared down at them in concentration as he slowly shuffled one foot in front of the other before his ankles locked, pitching him forward again. Chell caught him under the arms, bending back slightly at his sudden weight. He was ungainly and awkward in his movements, and it was more than obvious he'd never taken two steps in his whole life. _

_Still supporting him, she turned around so her back was facing him, draping his arms over her shoulders. She reached back and grabbed him behind the knee, eliciting a yelp from him at the sudden contact as she hitched his leg up around her waist. _

_She braced herself against him. He was now leaning at almost a forty five degree angle against her with one leg hooked around her middle. "Uhm," he breathed into her back. "This is… quite uncomfortable, and I'm…not entirely sure how this improved our situation. Now neither one of us can go anywhere – Not that I'm encouraging you to go on without me. Not it at all—Hey!" _

_She had backed up so that he was standing straight up, practically smashed against her and at risk of taking them both to the ground. Her jaw set as she tapped his right thigh, literally his last leg to stand on. She grabbed his arms, which still dangled helplessly over her shoulders and bent forward slowly, taking him with her. He was quite a bit taller than her – about two feet – but with him in such a position, even just the little she bent over nearly lifted him off the ground. He laughed nervously. _

_"See, now what you're doing there – I know I haven't been down here very long, or with much success, but I – I do like being on the ground. So, if you could, uhm, leave me there, that would be great. Just brilliant. And – and you're not stopping." He moaned, stretching his leg as far as he could, until the tips of his toes were barely touching the cement beneath them. _

_He flailed wildly as his foot left the ground, leaving him half-suspended in the air, and it was a feeling, he decided, he disliked very much. _

_Her hand found his leg again and she latched on, still fighting to keep her balance against his erratic movements. She grabbed him hard and jerked his leg forward around her waist and stumbled back slightly as she became top heavy. Despite his rather lanky, frail appearance, he actually weighed quite a bit. She chalked it up to the fact that he was basically made of metal, found her new center of balance, and walked on as he gradually calmed. _

_"Oh! Brilliant, thank you, great." He huffed, sounding frazzled. "At least we can move along now, can't we!" _

_He pressed his cheek against hers as he eagerly directed them through the labyrinth-like catwalks of inner Aperture._

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder as he carried her through the city. A fiery pain shot through her ankle with every step he took, but it wasn't terrible. She'd let him bring her home and then she'd set it and she'd be better within a few weeks. This wasn't the first time she'd broken a bone – her arm had been fractured once, too. But for now, she just sighed and listened to his voice.


	22. Power Down

There was nothing very spectacular about that day, nothing that told either of them that there was anything amiss.

She'd told him that she was going out, and he'd asked her to plug him in while she was gone. It'd been four days since his last charge. She'd obliged him, he'd promptly dropped off and she'd left.

It had been a beautiful day out, and she'd meandered through the city streets with no real objective. It was a forty minute trip to the inner city and back to their house, and it took Wheatley five hours to reach full charge, so she wasn't really in any hurry.

She'd spent the entire day scouting buildings she'd never been in before. Department stores and outdoor equipment stores, hardware stores and herbal shops. It was overwhelming, how much there was in the inner city, as compared to the outskirts. This was at least her fifth trip into this part of the city, and she was still exploring. She always had something to show for it, though. This time, she went home with two new fishing rods, seeds for an apple tree – Wheatley might get a kick out of that one – and a new Phillips head screwdriver.

She returned home a half a day later – more than enough time for him to have charged completely. She put her new equipment away and made into the living room, where he was lying on the couch with his back to her. She unplugged the device from the wall and took the lead out of the back of his neck, watching as he came to.

"Morning. I've been out for almost twelve hours. Feeling better?"

He sat up groggily, slowly, a frown set on his face. "No." he said bluntly. There was an edge of confusion to his voice that made her pause.

"What do you mean, 'No,'? Twelve hours, more than enough time for you to charge."

"I know, luv. But I didn't." He watched her expression change, going from mild surprise to concern as she walked up to him. She pushed his shoulder back gently, making him lie down.

"Turn over," she said, as she plugged the cord back into the wall. He did as she said and she gently slid the lead back into his port. He gave a slight protest, half-mumbling to her before he dropped off.

She checked everything carefully. He was 'asleep,' so the connection was there. It was plugged in… She sighed, a small, nervous knot developing in her chest. She'd wake him up in an hour, and if he wasn't feeling better…

It was by chance that she figured it out. A quick glance towards the electrical socket on the wall was all it took. Her eyes followed the length of the slim black cord, the plug protruding from the wall, the snaking wire, the bulky black box –

She stopped. The black box.

The charging unit consisted of three components. There was the plug that was still stuck fast in the wall. There was the wire that ended in the lead that remained securely in his port, and the two pieces were joined in the middle by a black box, the converter that allowed him to charge. Facing label-up, she could see the tiny rectangle of clear plastic where the green light shone through, signifying success and working order.

However, the green light was absent.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she moved to the wall, taking the plug out of one socket and shoving it into another. She glanced back at the box – still no green light.

She'd seen this happen before – obviously not with his cord, but with minor household appliances. A lamp, in the old house. It just stopped working, for no apparent reason. Chell had to periodically remind herself that it had been God-knows-how-long since anyone had used much of anything on the surface, and after years and year of disuse, things were bound to short.

She didn't understand, though. They'd been using this cord since the day he'd arrived. It just seemed to happen, though she felt she should have anticipated it a long time ago. They'd been too lucky, even just for her to have found the cable, it was beyond either of their spectrums of luck. Five years and it never broke, five years of using it once a week, of enduring use and the bizarre struggles he'd occasionally put up in his sleep. It had survived a fire that had burnt their old home down and then some. There was something so resilient about the cord that, in a tiny, fanciful part of her mind, she felt it would never give. It was impossible.

But her dominant, logical self knew that was ridiculous, and scolded every other part of her for not starting the search sooner. If she's looked for a new plug sooner, this would have never happened.

Her attention was quickly redirected to the sleeping man behind her, and her stomach dropped.

Every part of her wanted to leave him where he was, not to touch him and to watch him, in essence, sleep himself to death. Ignorance is bliss, after all. But still, leaving him there to slowly pine away as she did what? Asleep or not, she wasn't leaving him, it just felt wrong. But she sure as Hell couldn't mull around the house until he ran out of power.

Her fingers wrapped around the thin wire at the base of his skull and tugged. There was the familiar click as the piece slid loose before he stirred awake. He deserved more than to just be forgotten.

"Was that it? How long was I out?"

"A few minutes." She said softly. She sat cross legged on the floor in front of him as he sat up on the couch, knees drawn together and leaning forward towards her. She took his hands in hers.

She looked him in the eye, and for the first time he realized just how expressive a feature like human eyes could be. Her face remained as stoic as ever, but her slate gray eyes were literally just _pools_ of emotion. He swallowed hard, turning his head to the side and staring intently at the cord, tossed to the side of the couch.

"It's stopped working, hasn't it?" he asked. He didn't look at her for an answer, didn't even care if she gave one. The way her grip tightened on his hand when he said it was answer enough.

He had three days left. His jaw set and he looked back at her – she smiled weakly. "We can… we can find another one. I'm sure of it." She said. He stood, pulling her off the floor and wrapping his arms around her, ducking his head into her shoulder. "I won't leave you."

Three days passed, both of them unable to do anything about it. Chell was unwilling to leave him and he was grateful for that much. He would have gone completely out of his mind if she hadn't been there. He stayed fully functional, though he didn't do much. He lost energy quickly and had difficulty forming whole sentences, when he did talk, and it gradually became worse. His words were slurred and backwards and it seemed like halfway through the sentence he would try to remember what came next, or if he'd already said something. Subject-verb agreements were almost non existent, and by the seventh day, he had trouble understanding when she responded to him.

They stayed together the whole day, even though she was supposed to go gathering. Damn her schedule, she thought, lying next to him. The hour it would take to make the trip was too long, today. She wasn't leaving his side. They lay in the larger bed of the house's guest room, which easily held two people. He was curled around her and she was snuggled comfortably against him, ear pressed to his chest, so she could hear the whirring, a slow din that was lower in octave than she'd ever heard it.

"S'funny," he said slowly. "Use t'be so… uncomfortable…? No, scared. Scared. Of – of it… this. I don't… anymore. Not all. Still some. But I knew you'd… _know_ you'd… you _will_… no, won't. Just like you say…" he sighed. "I can't. It doesn't work."

She reached up to touch his face. "I won't leave you, just like I said. You'll be back before you know it. It'll be like being asleep."

"The long slept…. Sleep." He corrected himself, frowning. She grabbed his hand in one of hers, and brushed the burnt blonde hair out of his eyes. The blue was dim, almost gray, and she knew he couldn't last much longer on his charge. She reassured him as many times as possible that he was going to be just fine, but they'd discussed such a matter before, during the days where he couldn't find the cable to charge. They were both painfully aware of the possibility that Chell might not be able to find another cable that fit Wheatley's port. Although, she thought, perhaps he wasn't. She looked up at him and saw how distant he was, how out of focus with reality, and thought perhaps he wasn't truly aware of anything outside of his senses. As she held his hand, his thumb constantly worked a small crescent on the back of her palm. He was tethered by touch, it seemed, and she held him tighter, pressing her body against him.

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against hers.

The gentle hum in his chest stopped.

She lay there with him for several more minutes, unable to move. It was a shock: Wheatley was always making some sort of noise – humming, clicking, beeping – something. But now there was nothing. He was completely silent, and the soft warmth of his running CPU was quickly leaving him.

She shook herself, shuffled away from him and took stock. Eyes closed, mouth slightly open and face framed by the white linen of the pillow – he could have been asleep, she thought, standing and facing him. It felt wrong to just leave, but what was she to do? The faster she could get to work the better.

She gently pulled the thin white sheet over his shoulders and stepped back. He could have been asleep. But he wasn't.

He was dead.

The thought side blinded her, turning her insides cold and making her look quickly away. It wasn't something she wanted to dwell on.

* * *

><p>It'd been eleven days since she'd been home, taking refuge inside old convenience stores or mattress departments of a store for the night. Going home and coming back was a waste of time – she could survive out here with shelter, and the faster she could wake up and start searching the better. Besides, there was nothing at home for her. Until she was able to wake him, she was alone again, and she planned to remedy that as soon as possible.<p>

Finding a cord wasn't as hard as she had thought it would be. The problem was finding one that fit his port. A three pronged lead, each prong a circular piece that connected to the next in a sort of bulbous triangle. She'd found one in a lighting store, but it had seemed to be for a piece of heavier equipment, and was much too large for his port, which was about a square inch.

By the end of three weeks, she had hundreds of useless cords piled around a makeshift bed in the back room of a restaurant. There was plenty to sustain her in this tiny room alone, and she'd come to the rather tenacious conclusion that she wasn't going back to the house until she found what he needed.


	23. Bundle of Nerves

He couldn't see a thing. Having lived under fluorescent lights his whole life, he was stunned at just how _dark_ the real world could get. The rain had stopped, and Chell was asleep upstairs – door locked, no doubt, Wheatley thought sadly. It was entirely evident that she didn't trust him. Just the fact that she had helped him in the first place was more than he could have ever expected, and she had every right to lock her doors at night. Of course, he would never even _consider_ going in there and trying to hurt her – not now, anyway. Maybe back then, but back then there was just hurt and rage and that _itch_, that maddening _want_.

He shivered against the thought, trying to push it from his mind. That was the last thing he wanted to think about. He'd spent two years in space hitting rock bottom after rock bottom, but this was a chance to change that, he had to remind himself. This was a chance for him to fix things between them.

If he didn't mess it up.

A half-hearted growl came from the back of his throat as he sat up on the couch. He cursed his programming, that he wasn't able to slip into sleep mode at his own will. He was forced to lie awake at night, alone, with his thoughts.

Alone.

He sighed. Even with her, it seemed like he was alone most of the time. She was always out of the house. She told him it was to look for parts, because he still needed some – he knew he did. But sometimes it just felt like she went out just to be away from him. He wouldn't doubt it, after what he did.

_Clang_!

Wheatley froze.

Alone?

What was that? That noise, what _was_ that? He stood up and faced the direction of the noise, fists clenched at his sides. "Hullo?" He whispered harshly. He couldn't be too loud. If he woke Chell up she'd probably come down and disassemble him by hand. His tenure in the Relaxation Annex had taught him – very thoroughly – that if there was one thing that humans _hated_, it was being woken up.

There was no answer. Actually, there wasn't much of anything. It was all silent, now, very creepy. Not at all pleasant. He tried to imagine what sort of thing made a noise like that; something big with a lot of teeth and that probably liked the taste of metal.

His hand flew to the kill switch on the back of his neck, making sure the protective cover was securely down. As long as he was still on, he could put up a fight with… whatever that was, out there. Of course, he'd probably be too busy rambling to actually fight. He usually preferred to talk things out, even if whatever he was talking to didn't have to ability to talk.

_Clang!_

He jumped back, keeping himself safely behind the couch.

He tried again. "Uhm…yes – Hullo. You – you know. In the middle of the night. Making all those… terrifying noises. People are trying to sleep. It's really quite rude-"

_Clang!_

He flinched again. "Sorry! Sorry, bit rude of _me_, actually, to be calling you rude. Forget I said anything. But, I am being honest here, people are trying to sleep, and loud, otherworldly noises, like that terrible one you're making over there, they tend to wake people up, and when people wake up, they usually try to rip me from my rail. Now, I know what you're thinking. No rail. Why should the noises matter, then? Well, I'll tell you, I'll tell you. This lady, the lady who lives in this house, she's… actually very wonderful, but she can be a proper nightmare when you rub her the wrong way. And, just in case there was any question, she, uh, she _is_ a person. Not sure what you are, but she is a person. She will get mad, if you wake her up, and she _will_ most likely rip my circuits out. So, as a – erm – as a friend, I suppose, I don't know if you consider me a friend or a meal, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and say 'friend,' I'll go 'friend'. So, as a friend, I'm asking you to actually stop making those bloody terrifying noises so she won't wake up. D-deal?"

There was silence in the house for a moment.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe, for once, talking it out had helped the matter, instead of making it worse!

_Clang! Clang! Clang!_

Wheatley jumped, and – had it not been pitch black in the living room – one would have been able to see him physically cringe. The noise grew louder, continually clanging and humming and being generally _terrifying._

He stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over himself as he ran around the couch, falling at the foot of the stair and scrambling up. "Chell!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, running up the stairs.

Whatever it was was getting louder, a steady growling noise that literally _scared him half to death_ – he could feel his secondary functions shutting down as he went. First it was his vision, and right as his hands found the cool metal doorknob of her bedroom door, there went the feeling in his body. Unable to feel where his feet were on the floor – or more appropriately, where they were _not_ on the floor – he misstepped, sending him hurtling to the carpet in his panic. There was the click of her lamp that was almost drowned out by the ferocious growling from downstairs. He tried to cry out to her, to simultaneously warn her and to beg her not to rip him apart, but none of the words came out.

There went his voice. Blind, mute, and unable to feel anything he struggled on the ground until suddenly, there was her voice, right above him, soft and scared and secure at the same time.

"Stop." She said, sternly.

His internal processors whirred three times faster then they should have, but he heeded her advice.

She looked down at him, one hand planted firmly on his chest, the other at his face. His eyes were wide open, but by the way his pupils were dilated and he seemed to be staring right through her, it was obvious he couldn't see. "Can you hear me?" she asked, and he nodded, frightened.

"Good. Now calm down. Can you see me?"

He shook his head.

"That's okay. Just sit there and calm down."

Was he sitting? He threw his head back and was met with no resistance. So he was sitting. So that was something.

His vision slowly came back on, everything gradually emerging from a black fog, followed by his feeling. The whirring in his chest slowed and he realized for the first time that the clang-clang-clang from downstairs had stopped, replaced by a low, steady din. She remained at his side, keeping him upright. He latched onto her arm, all pretense of fear of her disassembling him forgotten. His head still swam as his processors sorted out his sensory issues.

"There's something downstairs." He gasped, his voice coming back online.

She smiled lightly, her shoulders betraying her slight laughter. "That's the air conditioner. Still a bit shaky, I know."

He looked at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, and she couldn't help but feel bad. She pursed her lips and stared at him as she contemplated a notion that had conveniently popped into her head.

She pulled him to his feet and led him from her room, to a door across the hall. She hesitated a moment before she grabbed the knob rather violently, throwing the door open; on the other side was a bedroom, almost identical to hers, only mirrored in layout and green. Chell turned to him and could see the stunned amazement on his face.

"It's a lot quieter up here. The machine, I mean. It shouldn't bother you."

"You – you trust me… to stay up here, with you, while you sleep?" he asked.

She merely smiled wryly, bidding him a tired "Good night, Wheatley," before retreating back into her own room as he did his.

She closed the door behind her and paused, her finger hovering over the tiny switch of a lock embedded in the handle. Her fingers twitched, her hand grasped the knob for a moment… and she let go, leaving the door unlocked and settling into bed.

She sighed, closing her eyes.

She'd give him a chance.


	24. Down

She closed the drawer, his black cord in hand. It'd been more than a few days since Wheatley had charged, and they were beginning to take chances. She found him on the back porch with his back turned to her, staring interestedly at the trees; he responded when she called for him, but it was only with a twitch of the hand, as if he suddenly thought better of joining her.

"Wheatley, come in and recharge – it's been five days," she pleaded, but her remained rigid on the wooden back porch, staring unwaveringly towards the thin like of foliage that separated their home and the home behind them. She moved to him, touching him lightly.

"Do you hear that…?" he asked.

Chell strained her ear, trying to pick up the noise. It was a useless effort, she knew, because his senses were far keener than her own.

"No, Wheatley. What is it-?"

He made a harsh shushing noise, raising a finger to his lips. His audio input processors picked it up easily. It was a small, desperate noise, high pitched and wholeheartedly sad.

"Wait here," he muttered absently to her, stumbling into the soft grass and making a bee line for the trees.

Chell watched curiously as he walked to the edge of their back yard and crouched to the ground, pawing gently at the foliage.

He cupped a hand on the ground, right under the poor thing. His fingers were awkward and bumbling and he held his breath, afraid that one wrong move would kill it. Shaky finger guided the poor thing into his palm. He felt he teetered precariously as he rose from his crouch. He was dangerously tall, he shouldn't bring it up this far, he was going to end up killing it.

Carefully, step by step, he brought it back to the porch, spreading his palm for her.

Sitting there, blindly struggling to right itself, covered in a soft gray down, was a small bird, just hatched by the looks of it. Chell thought back to the previous nights, where the wind had rattled the shingles and whipped through the trees.

It opened its tiny beak and cried, a sad sound, desperate for help.

So that's what he'd heard.

She couldn't help noticing the way his movements seemed gentler, more calculated than usual, the way his shoulders hunched forward protectively. She smiled, watching how his head ducked towards the bird, muttering condolences. She touched his arm, getting his attention and heading him back into the house with the small animal.

He cradled it, promising it that everything would be fine as she set up a temporary nest of dishrags.

Wheatley cared for the tiny bird. It was helpless, misplaces and vulnerable; he knew how that felt. Though it had been quite some time since he'd fallen from Earth's orbit, he still remembered the half-conscious realization that he was alone, that he was badly damaged, lying in his own crater, that he could feel a dangerous internal leak and that there was no one to help him, to care anymore. He thought he was going to die, there. Then she'd come, and pulled him from the ditch and carried him home.

He gently set the hatchling in the makeshift nest, dropping down in a nearby kitchen seat and staring at it intently.

Chell came back with a small cup of wet whole grain cereal – so mashed that Wheatley had difficulty identifying it at first – and a mashed banana.

"I'll feed it," she said gently. "Please go charge." There was a tone of urgency in her voice that made him look up at her. She mistook it for concern for the bird and smiled gently, a silent reassurance that all was in good hands.

He nodded in compliance and, with one glance back at the bird, stood and made his way to his bedroom. Chell se the little cups on the table and followed him, connecting him into the unit as he lay down on the sheets.

* * *

><p>Wheatley felt the lead click out of place as his senses came back online. He could hear Chell shuffling on the bed next to him, a hand on his arm as he stirred awake.<p>

He sat up, his vision came back online, and she was the first thing he saw. His circuits ran cold the moment her face came into focus – a while she usually held a stony countenance, the look on her face now… it looked like pity.

"Chell…?" he croaked.

There was a slight pressure as she squeezed his hand. "It wouldn't eat." She said, quietly.

The android sprang from the bed, racing out of the room and into the kitchen. The neat nest of dishrags was still sitting on the table. There was the unmoving bundle of down feathers nestled within.

His spindly fingers scooped the dead chick from its temporary home. It flopped pathetically when he picked it up. "Maybe it's not dead," he said, his voice slow and heavy and thoroughly unconvinced. "Yeah… it's just asleep. New thing need lots of that, don't they?"

He felt a hand between his shoulder blades as she rested her cheek against his arm. "I'm sorry, Wheatley." She said, gently.

His fingers closed around the tiny body. "Me, too. Poor thing. Literally fell from the sky. Alone, hurt, no one to help it… thought I might… return the favor, you know?" he glanced sideways at her when he said this. She nodded in understanding; they'd gotten quite good at understanding each other, even if they couldn't always find the right words.

He frowned deeply, closing his fist a little tighter, feeling his fingers press into the soft down. "Do you think it would have had a better shot if I'd left it there?" he asked, and honest question. His voice lacked that disconcerting tone of self-loathing that she'd heard from him before.

Despite this, Chell was still taken aback. He hadn't questioned his competence, his decisions in years. She gently uncurled his fingers and lifted the bird from his unresisting hands. "No," she said, truthfully, setting it back in the makeshift nest and laying a strip of cloth over its body to obscure it. "I think you kept it alive longer than it would have survived out there." She took his hands, still gathered loosely in front of him as if he still held the bird, and led him away from the table.


	25. Memories

Was this being dead? Wheatley couldn't tell – he couldn't tell much of anything. He couldn't feel, he couldn't move, he could hardly even think. It required a great deal of focus and even that was slipping away. Everything was, he thought sadly. The sudden feeling of loss was intense, simply because feeling was all there was anymore. Sadness, resignation, and more than anything, a gnawing fear. He wasn't scared of dying. No, he knew he was safe with her. He was scared of being alone. He always had been, but it was so much more here, where ever _here_ was. Was she there? Was she still lying next to him and caring and being close? He couldn't tell. He wanted her there; he didn't want to be alone. Everything was raw thought and codes and feelings, but even those were so distant, he couldn't tell what was really his. Everything was in a fuzz, a sort of static. All of his senses had gone completely off line, and he wanted nothing more than to call out to her, to move and reach and touch her and to beg her to never leave, beg her to stay there with him forever. He thought of her. The thoughts flooded what was left of his consciousness, warming him.

Despite his fear, just the thought of her calmed him and made him feel infinitely better. He let her fill his mind, memories and her general feeling. He imagined her still, lying next to him on the bed, with her arms around him – safe with her. He was always safe with her.

He thought about her, and her alone. There was every memory he ever had of her, even the horrible, monstrous, murderous ones that he specifically tried to avoid when he was alive. That look she gave him, full of pure _hatred_, was the look she'd used to give Her. When he had been alive, just the thought of the way she used to look at him sent shivers through his circuits. But now, in this barely alive state as the rest of his mind was siphoned away, even that was comforting. Just being able to recall her looking at him, despite the obvious amount of hate in her eyes – she was looking at him. _At_ him. Just the thought was enough to reassure him, to ground him and help him remember that he was still there, no matter how little of him there was. But, too soon, it too was sucked away, one memory replaced by the next: The memory of her, kneeling in front of him, so out of focus that he could hardly see her. But, oh, there was no mistaking her. Everything felt _off_ about that memory as she handed him his glasses and he gave a great twitch. That was the night he'd landed.

Then she was smiling at him warm, caring, all previous animosity forgotten, she genuinely cared about him. And – man alive – he would give the world for her. He remembered vaguely the _sentence_, the job of taking care of the humans. It was nothing like how it was with her – he was more than happy to take care of her, wanted more than anything to make sure she was okay. At first, the need to protect her had been driven by guilt, but even that had melted away. Everything they had was genuine, a miracle he'd never thought possible during his stay in purgatory.

Her laughter was replaced with the dim light of the early morning living room. He recalled how she'd come tentatively down the stairs of their old home, braced with a brass lamp to bludgeon him to death out of fear. The night terrors never stopped plaguing her, but she'd learned that day that the dreams were just that – dreams. She'd dropped the lamp and had collapsed on the couch and he'd held her, resting his chin on the top of her head, as she shuddered in his arms. He could almost feel her, there, and fought to hold onto the memory, but it was fleeting.

He had the vague impression that she was sitting in front of him, her hands on his face, though he couldn't feel them, nor could he move, to raise his hands to meet hers. He recalled the soft scent of dirt all around, mercifully masking the smell of burning rubber and plastic. He wanted to lean into her and have her mutter those honest reassurances, but it was just him and her and that singular moment, frozen in time until the memory dissolved into another.

He should have felt her beneath him. She was there, curled against him. There was a swell of joy at the memory – he recalled this night as his favorite. Chell was asleep peacefully in his arms for the first time, and they were both free of guilt and anger and fear and – for once in his life, for the _very first time_ – everything was perfect. Oh, it was a feeling unlike anything else. It was the first time he could recall feeling true happiness. Sure, he'd felt relief, and hope and a whole bunch of other positive emotions, but this, this perfect contention to just exist, peacefully and with her. This, he knew, was the biggest step they took together. It warmed every wire in his body to have her there, safe, asleep, and trusting.

Yes, he thought, as the memory began to slip away. That was his favorite one.

He'd remembered she'd woken up in his arms, calm and just as happy as he was. She was there and he wasn't sure what happened next, only that she was so _close_. She smile gently and said something, and…

And…

He didn't know. All that existed was the memory of her face, her kindness and compassion, all for him. And, in this lovely, barely conscious state of mind, he felt better than he ever had. A sweeping sense of calm came over him. Death didn't hurt as much as he'd thought it would. In fact, it was pleasant.

There was a sharp pain in his chest – the first true sensation he'd felt since he'd closed his eyes. Something had happened, he was sure, but he didn't want to care. He focused on her, on the warmth of her memory, of her face, until he _couldn't_ care, anymore, and that too left him.

And even the nothingness went away.


	26. The Factory

The morning was calm and quiet and, as Chell woke up, she felt a mild discomfort of not waking to Wheatley's incessant chatter – it hadn't come as a surprise to her that he talked to himself in her absence. But even though she knew that he was tucked away under the covers of his bed, much as she was, charging, it still sent a cold shiver of loneliness up her spine.

He was relatively slow to wake up when she went to unplug him, sitting up groggily and holding his head in his hands, muttering to her that he'd be out on a moment.

He asked her to leave.

She was confused, and more than a little but hurt, but she left him, all the same.

He came out nearly a half an hour later, joining her at the kitchen table, disheveled and jittery. He sat, and he noticed how her gaze never left him. A deep breath. "I don't want to… alarm you… not the point of this," he said, heavily, giving a great twitch. Chell's eyes widened as he moaned under his breath, "No, no, no, no, no…" and the words began to tumble out. "But the thing is, I think something's just a little, teeny-tiny bit O—AAAAAAARRRRGH-" the word 'off' had transformed into a guttural scream as he jerked out of his chair. It stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving him panting on the floor, his fans whirring a mile a minute, and her standing worriedly over him. He grunted as he stood, supporting himself on the table. "Something's broken," he gasped, falling like a lead weight into the chair. "Something inside me, cracked right in two, feels like, and it's stabbing all these other really important parts."

She reached over and laid her hands on his, waiting for him to steady himself before speaking. "There's a factory, down by the motor shop. What part do you need, I can go-"

He shook his head, silencing her. "I can't just let you take the part and go, like you would for a plug or a belt. I _need_ this. I can't function without it in place. It holds quite a few important components together – very poorly, at the moment – and if you take it with you, luv, I'll literally fall apart."

Chell frowned before moving to a small closet in the living room. He watched ash she rummaged through it, and gasped when she pulled out a pair of what looked like porcelain boots.

"The long fall boots!" he breathed in amazement. "You – you kept them?"

She nodded, strapping them on and gritting her teeth against the sharp pain of the system digging into the flesh of her calves. "They were useful," was her simple reply. "Plus, all Aperture technology remains safely operation in temperatures up to-"

"Four thousand degrees Kelvin," he finished for her. "So they survived the fire, easy!"

Chell, equipped with the boots and her determination, found her pack. It was relatively small, and could barely fit two rain ponchos, a small first aid kit and her tools.

"Chell? Chell, stop!" he grabbed her arm, stopping her frenzy in its tracks. "You can't just go! I _need_ that part, I…" he stopped.

"I know," she reminded him, gently, removing his hands from her shoulders. "I know you need it. I'm not going to take the _part_… I'm going to take _you_."

He blanched at her words. "Is… are you sure that's a good idea?"

She looked at him, contemplating. Despite his worry, Chell was never one to redact a decision; he was coming with her.

The factory wasn't too far away. A fifteen minute walk and they found themselves at the entrance to a three acre building, four stories high.

The doors wouldn't open, and Wheatley suggested they go home, maybe try another day. He gave another twitch and Chell cocked an eyebrow. His nervous smile disappeared as he looked himself over and he sighed, acknowledging that he was in pretty poor condition. He nodded in resignation.

She took two steps back and kicked out the window, the heel of her long fall boots shattering the glass.

As they traversed the factory, passing the lobby and the display, the meeting rooms and the break rooms, they realized that Wheatley had developed a painful twitch reminiscent of the one he'd had as they'd made their escape.

The further they traveled into the factory, the more barren and skeletal everything became. Metal beams and catwalks were their roads as they looked down on machines and assembly lines long forgotten.

She had him walk in front of her as they maneuvered the sketchier beams, fearful that the broken part would send him into another fit and held his hand as they walked side by side on the wider catwalks.

She couldn't believe how lucky it was that they'd been on a sturdy catwalk when it'd happened. She'd been slightly in front of him and then _down he went_, nearly dragging them both to the floor. She'd dropped immediately to his side to make sure he was okay, and he'd looked exasperatedly up at her.

"I… I can't move my leg. My right leg, I can't – I think something's happened…"

Chell gaped at him for a moment. That was an understatement; whatever had broken within him was interfering with his functions – that was more than just a temporary nuisance.

She knelt by him on the floor and helped him position himself so that she could carry him. It had been so much easier at Aperture, when he'd disconnected from his rail, because he had at least been able to stand. Here, he was helpless on the floor.

It took them several minutes to get him on her back, and only then were they able to move forward. He weighed quite a bit more than she remembered – she supposed it was due to the parts she's replaced in him. The old clunky metal bits were heavier than the lightweight material that Aperture made their parts from. That plus the fact that the air supply lacked adrenal vapor, she had to readjust him more than once and they moved much slower than they should have.

Her long fall boots made sharp taps against the metal of the catwalk, helping her keep her rhythm. If she stepped out of rhythm, she'd slow down and Chell had never been one to waste, especially when it was something as valuable as time.

She didn't know if Wheatley's ailment was life threatening. As far as he was letting on, everything was fine. He was usually terrible at hiding even the most trivial of secrets so she figured that, if he was in any serious danger, she'd know. Still, his twitch had become almost as steady as her footfalls, and it was apparently painful.

They came to a drop off in the catwalk, and she was suddenly grateful that she'd had the foresight to wear the long fall boots. She judged the distance; it wasn't very far, not nearly as far as some of the drops in Aperture, but despite the sharp pain in her calves, with Wheatley on her back, she would have crumpled under him upon landing. With the boots, she fell vertically and landed as easily as if she'd taken a leap off of the bottom step of a stairwell. The catwalk gave a groan under their sudden weight, but held.

She was going to keep going, but there was suddenly a hollow scream in her ear, and Wheatley's arm constricted around her throat. One hand flew up immediately, trying to pry him away from her airways, the other keeping a grip on him, but it was needless. His whole body gave a desperate thrash and then went nearly limp a split second later. Chell coughed and choked as he gasped for air, resting his head on her shoulder. "S-sorry, sorry, luv. I – didn't quite have… control of my arms, there, for a moment."

Her voice returned to her and she hitched him a little higher onto her back. "It's okay. I should have been more careful. No more big jumps. Are you okay?"

He laughed halfheartedly. "As okay as I can be, considering."

They moved on in relative silence, save for the occasional grunt from Wheatley as another spasm racked his body. She was beginning to tire.

Wheatley had told her he'd know the part when he saw it, it was sort of a square-ish rectangular flat bit with holes in it. She'd had no idea what that meant, and he said he'd keep an eye out – they found the part _hours_ later, on an assembly line. They were hard drive covers, the piece that protected the hard disk. He was ninety eight percent sure that the hard cover was cracked. If not, good for him, they just move on and find out what's really wrong. If so, one wrong move and – oops! – no more robot.

He told her to move closer to the parts and she did. That was it, he was more than sure of it. He could feel the casing, jutting out at an odd angle, the crack tensing and widening with almost every move he made. That _had_ to be it. With a nod of his head, she took the hint, setting him gently on the ground. The impact, however gentle, widened the crack further, causing it to press painfully into _something_ else in there.

Immediately, he panicked, the words spilling out of their own accord. "You – you can't just leave me here! I know you're trying to help but you can't, we can't stop, she'll _kill_ us—"

Chell spun around immediately, looking down at him. He shifted position and the stabbing pain left, leaving him silent. Their eyes met, and he could see the utter, if fleeting, fear in the slate gray orbs. His lips moved, stuttering around the words. "I- I'm sorry, I didn't… Shouldn't've said that, wasn't thinking clearly. Didn't mean to, really. It sort of just… spilled out…" he finished, slowly, averting his eyes, grimacing as another sharp pain shot through his chest.

He heard her move towards him, kneel down in front of him and then there was her hands on his face, guiding his gaze up to hers.

He'd gotten very good at reading her, and the message was clear: she had been thinking the same thing. The factory looked too much like the dilapidated interior of Aperture for either of their likings. He pressed his lips together and nodded, watching her smile gently and nod back before returning to the assembly line. She's said it without words. They were safe.

Once she had a suitable part, she took a seat behind him, rummaging through her pack.

"Okay." He said as she joined him. "I'm going to work under the assumption that you actually know very little about how computers work. Not to say that you haven't done a marvelous job fixing me up, but we're going to have to go a bit further than that quick-access port on my neck, so I'm going to talk you through it as far as I can. Right. So there's this… button. On the inside of the back of my neck, just at the bottom there. Press that."

She searched blindly, feeling back and forth within the little flap. Eventually, she felt it, a tiny protrusion that depressed under the pad of her finger. She waited a beat. "It hasn't done anything."

"Oh, ho, yes it has." He said. His voice sounded weak and frightened, and he had a very good reason for it, she saw as she looked over his shoulder. He was staring down at his chest, which had slid open like one of the glass doors in the houses in their neighborhood. Within this hidden panel laid his circuitry – wires and boxes and fans that kept him functional, and one, in there somewhere, that was hurting him.

It was at that moment that she realized what miracles Aperture had worked when they built him. All the years and she'd never known his body could do this. She'd worked mainly on the wires that had served as his nervous cord, the collection of blue and red and black in the back of his neck, most of which had been dislodged or damaged at the base of his skull during impact. She'd thought she'd seen his computer side then, but this – she remembered smashing open a system unit once, the tower of an old monitor computer in hopes of finding pieces she could use to fix him, and it looked not unlike his inner workings. He was a rudimentary computer, when it came down to it, but it was the way that his mechanics had been integrated so perfectly with his appearance that was truly astounding. Synthetic skin that merged on contact with itself, producing the flawless plane of a human chest, could split at the touch of a button to allow access to his internal workings.

She moved around to his front with her pack, removing her tools and laying them out beside her. She sat patiently as he collected himself, waiting for his next instruction. She was going to follow his every word as if her life depended on it because his did, and that was just as important.

"Okay. Now, if I'm correct, it's my hard drive that's giving me the problem. I think the casing cracked. Generally only a minor case, except that now it's stabbing me in all different important components, so it's not as minor any more. So, basically just find the broken bit. Should be a bit of a rectangular shape, the Aperture Science logo blaring at you, you can't miss it."

He was right, you couldn't miss it. The engineers who had built Wheatley were apparently also novice biologists who seemed to know the general pattern in which the human organs are laid out in a body. This was apparently their template. Two cooling fans dominated the majority of his chest area. Towards the bottom of his chest was a flat silicone motherboard, lights dancing dizzily across its components, and at the top, situated right where the human heart would be, was a small rectangular box that was humming incessantly.

Her fingers grazed the crack, causing him to wince; she saw the fans moving faster and faster in short spasms as his breathing picked up. Her finger pressed down in the jagged crack and the humming grew louder by a fraction of a decibel. So that's what she heard so often - his hard drive.

His voice snapped her back. "Oh, oh, luv – please don't do that." He whispered. "It's not that I don't trust you, but… I mean, you wouldn't exactly be cool and collected if I had my hand in all those squishy organs of yours, would you? It just… uncomfortable."

She apologized quietly, snatching her hand back and groping for the screw driver. Tiny silver screws popped out with the slightest turn of the tool, but that was the easy part. The screws for the new part were so small she could barely hold them in place as she lifted the head of the screwdriver to them. Her hands were large and awkward inside him, compared to the delicate machinery and, as steady as she kept her hand, it wasn't enough. Her skin connected with hot metal and burned her, causing her to pull back several times before half the screw were in.

It didn't hurt as much, now that the broken casing had been removed, but he kept his eyes screwed shut nonetheless. He was confident of her screw turning skills, despite the painful noises that were coming from her, and he certainly didn't want to watch. He could feel her poking around in his chest – it didn't hurt, exactly, she was being so gentle, he was _inexpressibly_ thankful for that, but he had to fight a rising panic. He reassured himself that it was completely normal to panic because someone had their hands in your chest, she'd do the same, given the situation, and that there really was _nothing_ to worry about.

There, that was the last screw. She laid a finger on the new casing, tracing the circular logo. She couldn't make out the words or the name of the manufacturer in the dim light, but what mattered was that it had fit, and he was better. She saw him crack an eye open to look down at her when he felt her stop. He was surprised that she was done; it had happened surprisingly quickly and had been relatively painless. He looked down.

He laughed nervously, half out of habit, half out of shock and terror at being able to see inside of himself. Focusing back on her face, he told her how to make that awful hole in his chest close back up, finally watching in relief as the synthetic skin weaved and fused together, leaving it as if nothing had happened. He moved his limbs experimentally, standing and stretching his legs – at least he could move, now, no more having to be carried out of the facility.

The factory's eerie silence was interrupted by a crack of thunder and the steady downpour of rain. Wheatley glanced up at the ceiling, then to his partner. She was already settling against the wall, head back and eyes closed. He hadn't realized how much the day had taken out of her – she'd made it look so effortless when she did most of this at Aperture.

Then again, this wasn't Aperture.

They really were safe.

He lowered himself down next to her; she was probably exhausted and more than deserved a rest. He held her against him, kissing the top of her head and thanking her, and let her drift off, keeping her close.


	27. Hallucination

Chell ducked into the small shop, out of the rain. Her hair was matted to her forehead and her clothes stuck to her, vapor simmering up in puffy clouds from the heat trapped in the small building. She swallowed hard and trudged forward. Every step she took killed her, because it was just another step away from home, away from him. She had lost count of how many days she'd been living in the city – there was a chalk marking calendar she'd made on the wall by where she spends the nights; she couldn't quite call it sleeping. It was fitful and hardly provided her any rest at all, but really. Who could rest? Her problem solver's mind was always in motion, constantly following the maze of their predicament. Every turn, every seemingly good idea she had, something that might bring him back to her, was met with a dead end. A slap to the face.

No, it wasn't sleeping.

God, she was so tired. She shook her head vigorously to dispel the weariness and to get some of the water out of her hair. She felt so used to this, the constant distress, the compulsion to keep moving, always forward, towards some obscure objective. Back then, it had been _survive._ _Escape._

Here it was _find the cord._ Here it was _wake him up_. But, oh, she had less of an idea of how to go about this than before. She felt she must have been searching for at least a month. The tick marks above her 'nest' confirmed the notion, though she tried hard not to look at them every morning. She scratched a mark on the wall to keep time, head turned, and continued on with her day.

The only semblance of hope in the last month or so was the fact that the city was huge. Really, miles and miles wide, more buildings than she thought she'd ever be able to search. A gnawing fear in her chest told her that, no matter how many buildings there were in the abandoned city, Aperture's technology was special. She's learned that by taking care of him all those years, replacing delicate, light weight, _special_ parts of his with the steel, plastic and copper of the outside world. Everything on the surface was in stark contrast to the delicate nature of Aperture machines, and Wheatley was no exception. If Aperture hadn't had the mind to design him with a charging port that wasn't fit _specifically_ by an Aperture wire…

She gasped at the sudden wave of heat emanating from the room, thrusting the thought from her mind. It did no good to dwell on what ifs. She had to focus on him, on finding the cord, not on the possibility, however real, of _not_ finding it.

She took a deep breath and moved closer to the heat of the back of the room. There was a gentle hum that came from old, dormant machinery. It was more than comforting, it was _just so right_, that familiar noise of running machinery.

Chell practically collapsed on the floor, pressing her cheek against the filthy, but warm tile floor. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around herself, breathing deeply. The heat filled her lungs and warmed her from the inside out. Her eyes closed and she pulled herself into a tighter ball. Her mind drifted off willingly for the first time all month. There had to be something better up ahead. Soon.

Chell had never been one to gripe or complain, but it just wasn't fair - _for him_. What had happened, _why_ had the unthinkable happened? They were the last two on earth, what was this _force_ just _picking_ on them? Was it Karma? Devine punishment? For what? She frowned deeply. He didn't deserve this, forget the past. _She_ had forgiven him, why couldn't their luck? She sighed again, feeling the comfortable thoughtlessness of sleep begin to blanket over her.

"Luv?"

Her eyes shot open.

Oh, God.

She trembled on the floor, thoughts whirring a mile a minute. No, it wasn't possible. He was at home, he wasn't here.

Her breath hitched as she recalled his voice, so clear, so _real_. She turned her head, not rising from her position and saw.

There was nothing there but a small desk and a chair.

Her head snapped forward again, her cheeks burning with an inevitable _something_. Embarrassment? Fear? No, neither one of those emotions existed to her anymore. There was nothing but the necessary, unbridled hope that kept her going, and a sharp, aching _longing_. Everything in her hurt when she thought of him, and the sound of his voice – hallucination or not – was almost more than she could bear.

She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined him there next to her. She wanted to hear the gently hum of his hard drive, she wanted to feel him holding her and hear him mumbling into her ear, his waterfall voice never stopping, but more than anything, she just wanted him to be alright.

She welcomed her half conscious dreams of him, alive and well and happy. She imagined herself, lying down with him in that cramped little office in the back of the shop. He had an arm slung around her waist and his head burrowed into her hair, whispering to her how it was okay, how _he_ was okay. Nothing to worry about, he was fine. Better than fine. He asked her to remember that he was safe, that he'd be back in no time, that he missed her, that he knew she'd find it. He'd asked her to be careful, because he couldn't come to the rescue this time. He chuckled gently in her ear, holding her closer.

"Goodnight, luv."


	28. Cough

It was fast and unexpected; it surprised her onto her feet and by the end of the night, they were dancing. Their new living room was large and open with a fireplace glowing, flickering erratically as if conducting their movements. He was ungainly on his feet, shuffling and making jerky little movements as they jumped and twirled around – she was no better, and every time they tripped over each other's feet, a laugh would bubble past her lips and they'd just resume their movements, dancing to the music that played only in his head. He'd hum a tuneless song, breaking on and off as he saw fit, as they spun around once, twice, three times and down they went, dizzily collapsing onto the couch.

He chuckled, embarrassed, as she fought the onset of dizziness. It was hard to imagine that only a few hours ago she'd been miserable, she thought as she looked up at him. She was nestled comfortably against him with her head leaning against his shoulder as he repeatedly combed his fingers through her hair.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against hers, breathing in deeply. As a core, as an employee of Aperture, he couldn't remember ever being so content. It was a feeling much unlike the Euphoria Solution, which had been so intense, so fleeting, always leaving him with an empty hunger for more. This wasn't like that at all – it was happiness he hadn't known a core could feel: soft and warm and completely filling. When he'd lived in Aperture, it had been nothing but fear and cowardice; it was so different here, where he was never scared for his life and had someone to look after who wasn't catatonic.

He hummed gently into her hair, a soft song that had always calmed him – ironically enough a token of that purgatory he never wanted to revisit. He'd often caught a turret or cube _radiating_ this song.

She closed her eyes and listened to him, a deep, throaty noise that resonated in his chest and made every part of her tingle. She knew this song; it was _the_ song, her last conscious reminder of her imprisonment in Aperture – the terrifying moment when she thought she was caught – trapped and defenseless without the portal gun – by the turrets.

They'd opened their dispensers and she'd staggered back against the glass of the elevator-

And they'd started singing.

She'd watched in awe as she was lifted into the full concert. It was in a language she'd never heard before, much less could translate, and it was a hypnotizing falsetto that contrasted sharply with his deep baritone hum – but it was no less beautiful.

She sighed deeply, happily, and joined him in her own shaky alto.

His voice stuttered when she joined him – he hadn't thought that she'd known the song. He'd thought that only those few Aperture robots knew it, some funny nonsense lyrics that went along with the prettiest melody he'd ever heard. But then, he figured, holding her closer to him, she'd spent her whole life with the very same robots, turrets and cubes. Why shouldn't she know the song?

It had startled him at first, her joining in. But, man alive, he realized, she sounded brilliant! The song ended and he waited a beat to see if she kept going, but she stopped with him, snuggled close and just as utterly content as he was. She'd always known that she was happy with him – any bad blood or guilt between them had dissolved years ago – but where they were now… not even her wildest daydreams could have conjured up something so wonderfully blissful; her mind could not have foreseen this within the confines of Aperture's walls.

She snuggled closer to him, noting an odd sensation in her chest. She wrinkled her nose, tearing away from him and turning her head to the side.

Chell coughed.


	29. Alone

The city was too far away, and the weather had been bad the last few days. She was unwilling to stray too far from the house or Wheatley today, but she needed to go out. They were in need of coal and a whittling knife, of spark plugs and washers and a new screwdriver, and she was amazed that she hadn't thought if it sooner. They were living in the middle of a suburban community, surrounded by several still standing houses. They lived in the middle of a fertile scavenging field! She'd mulled around the house most of the day, keeping her eye on the sky and fretting about whether or not she should go…

She grabbed her pack and reached for the front door handle.

"Where're you going?" he asked, suddenly aware that she was leaving. Despite his minor fear of being alone in a bad storm, his main concern was for her. He'd come to the conclusion that he was relatively safe inside. But humans, he'd learned were just as fragile as any android, maybe more, and that bad weather was a threat for both of them. He hated when she went out in a storm and left him to pace the hardwood and hope she comes home.

"I need a few things. Don't worry, I won't go far. I'll stay in the community." She reassured him with a smile.

What choice did he have? He knew that her scavenging was crucial to both their survival, and if she said she needed something, who was he to argue with her, when she was so brilliant at the staying alive thing?

He nodded, still unsure of her decision, and cast a worried glance up at the gray clouds that hung in the sky. He gave her a quick squeeze of a hug and watched as she left the house.

"Careful, luv. Hurry home."

* * *

><p>It was frustrating, for Chell.<p>

Most of the houses she went in were either in such a state of disrepair that she could hardly enter them, or nearly completely bare. Some of the houses looked like they had been broken into, with busted windows or popped locks, and many of those showed signs of looting, she thought, as she picked through the remains of a broken vase. There was evidence that it had been used as a hiding spot once upon a time – flecks of silver foil intermingled with the opaque ceramic pieces. She rose from her crouch and began exploring the rather well preserved house. This one looked like it had only experienced a minor break in, instead of a full fledged looting. This must have been a heavily protected property, she figured, and this was good for her purposes. She threw herself into a frenzy, knowing that there had to be something in the house she could use.

She took a step forward, and heard the distinct crumple of paper beneath her foot. Stepping back to release the papers, she knelt down and picked them up, two pieces of stationary with a sleek hand written in black ink. Some of the words were harder to read because of the wear of time and the ink splotches that had befallen the paper at some time or another, but she was able to make out most of the bottom of the first page:

"_The Combine may be gone, the war may be over, but we're no where near out of the crisis. Humanity hardly has a leg left to stand on, and lo and behold, they left us a bit of a gift. The Green Flu has already taken the lives of millions, completely obliterating any semblance of government. Important political leaders all over the world have fallen to this mutation pandemic, and it has crippled major cities in every state, county and province. I fear it's only a matter of time before the Green Flu finds its way into the rural world. We're safe for now, so that's something. But things aren't looking good._

_ ~S.M._"

Chell could only stare at the paper, her hands trembling. The Combine, the Green Flu, the war – she didn't understand! Over the years, all she'd gotten were bits and pieces of the story – nothing she ever found told her what had happened to an entire planet. Her fingers clenched into a fist around the paper and moved on – there was nothing in this room for either of them.

She shouldered the next door open, stumbling into the bedroom and gagging. The smell was enough to make her want to vomit. She took a book from the desk and smashed the window open to air out the room. It helped, but only marginally. She took a look around: The walls were covered with pin ups of newspaper articles, dated far after the ones she was able to scavenge from the inner city. Her jaw dropped and her breath caught when she saw the pictures, freelance snapshots of the most massive spacecraft the Earth had ever seen, being followed by hundreds of smaller models. The caption below read "_E.T., GO HOME._"

She ripped the article from the wall, still suppressing her gag reflex, and read further. Her eyes scanned the faded page, taking in everything. Her heartbeat quickened at every word and she felt an unfamiliar choking feeling at the thought of what had happened to her friends and family. Perhaps she couldn't remember them, but she knew she'd had them at one point, and she couldn't say she enjoyed knowing what had happened to them.

She sighed, setting the paper clipping on the desk. Her eyes travelled over other papers scattered across the wood. She stopped. Big black letters were glorified at the top of the page. It was like a bad accident – she couldn't bring herself to look away. The letters screamed at her.

Black Mesa.

She could still hear every inflection of Cave Johnson's voice ringing in her ears. "Black Mesa can eat my bankrupt-"

Somehow, Black Mesa was associated with Aperture Science. Somehow. It didn't matter how. Black Mesa was responsible for the death of the Human Race.

There was a sudden, boiling, unbridled anger. It was Aperture's fault, it always was. Now that she knew, the words screamed at her from all corners of the room: Black Mesa, Portal Storm, Aperture Science Innovators—

She made a noise, more of a growl or a snarl than a scream, and nearly flipped the desk over, fleeing from the room. She forgot her search for the supplies, instead settling for lying in a crumpled heap at the house's front steps.

Alone.

* * *

><p>It was frustrating, for Wheatley.<p>

Oh, he wouldn't ever tell her, no. Because, when it came down to it, it really was a silly thing, because he truly _was_ happy with her.

The door closed behind her. "Careful, luv. Hurry home." He called, though he was sure she hadn't heard. He was alone again.

Every time she left the house, he was reminded of just how _alone_ he was. Sure, Chell would be back within a few hours, and everything would be right as rain again until they needed something – which, Wheatley thought, was more often than he liked. It wasn't so much that she wasn't good company, or even that she was away too often. He loved being with her, and he wouldn't have traded _that_ for anything.

But there was still that nagging feeling of loneliness that he could never quite place.

He paced the house, trying to straighten things up. After a lifetime living in a facility that had literally been falling apart at the seams, he couldn't help but try to keep things tidy, often rearranging entire rooms just to make things more organized. Chell had persuaded him out of this some time ago, considering the fact that she was never able to find anything one day to the next, but there were days like these where he simply kept busy to keep busy.

Today was the living room.

He cleaned, straightened and made everything look absolutely spotless, and even that wasn't enough. Thoughts still nagged at the back of his mind and he knew he needed more, a new job, another distraction. His gaze passed over the entirety of the living room, trying to find something to do.

There was the closet.

He squirmed uncomfortably. The closet was hers, and he was rarely allowed to touch it. Things were organized by her standards in there – which was to say, not at all. And yet, she seemed to know where everything was.

Still, she had told him that even she had to admit that it had gotten out of hand, and that it was due for her to clean it out.

His hand touched the door handle and pulled it open.

This would keep him busy at _least_ until she got home, and then everything would be just fine.

He made short work of the top shelves, since they were mostly boxes – old files and papers that Chell had collected over the years. Of course, they were all important to her, but to an outsider, they must have looked like they were selected at random. Perhaps they were. Honestly, he couldn't tell, but every time she looked through the small boxes, she smiled, so he figured that _knowing_ wasn't truly important.

The lower shelves were a bit harder to navigate, though. They were full of loose items – things that she'd scavenged, thought that they might come in handy one day. Maybe they would; he had never had as much foresight as she had. But the closet was still a wreck. He carefully sorted everything, compacting it as far into the back of the closet as he could, fitting everything together like a jigsaw puzzle, creating space in the front.

He came across many odd things – giant mesh rackets that strapped to your feet, arrows and an extra axe, a box of assorted knives, a mesh rope net, and a nylon bungee cord – but it was one thing in particular that made him stop, half the closet strewn out across the floor. He tucked everything else away, but pulled the porcelain-like boots out of the closet, sitting on the couch with her Long Fall Boots in his lap. He ran his hands over every inch of them, the hard material unyielding under his fingers.

This was it, besides him. This was the last memento of either of them having ever been in Aperture.

He would never admit it to her, but even now there were times he _hated_ being on the surface. It was great for her – she had been born up here, she'd been _made_ for life up here. He hadn't, and to be brutally honest, it felt it, sometimes. She'd tried so _hard_ to make him feel like he belonged up here, she tried so hard to make everything work… Sometimes, he didn't have the heart to let on that it didn't.

The door opened, and in came Chell, damp, frowning, and thoroughly disgruntled. Rarely did she come home empty handed, and when she did, he knew something had happened while she was out. He shoved the Long Fall Boots to the side and rushed to her.

She was in his arms in an instant.

He sighed. Of course, putting it that way sounded utterly miserable, entirely ungrateful and just _wrong_. It wasn't terrible. In fact, it was rarely even _bad_. But it was always lonely. The boots made him smile, knowing that he wasn't as misplaced as he might have thought. Besides – wasn't she almost as much of a product of Aperture as he was? She'd had to relearn nearly everything about daily life, she'd told him about her first two years out of Aperture. It hadn't been easy for her, either.

Robot or not, he decided, holding her close, he wasn't alone.

Chell buried her face into his chest. The day had been absolutely awful. If her discovery in that person's bedroom wasn't enough, she'd sat down on the steps and contemplated the whole ordeal. It didn't make her feel any better. In fact, it had made her feel worse, because she'd figured out what had made that terrible smell.

That was it, she'd decided. She truly was the last human on the Earth. The Green Flu had done a number on the Human race, obliterating them down to the few dwindling numbers that had died off years before she'd even woken from Cryo.

The world had never felt as empty to her as it had on those stairs.

And yet… here she was, now, tucked safely in his arms. This wasn't alone. This wasn't even marginally _lonely_. This was loved, and cared about. This was safe and warm with the person _you_ cared about, the person you gladly would have given the world for.

Standing there, in the middle of the living room, she decided that being the last living human wasn't so bad, so long as he was there.

They had each other, and that was all they really needed.


	30. The Hunt

A single ray of sunlight broke through the overcast sky, breaking up the clouds. The warmth fell on her face, waking her from her sleep. The sun was up, which meant she was up as well. There was never time to waste. She turned over and sat up, still half asleep. It had been a rough night, she reminded herself, and she had to take it slow in the morning or impede progress for the next few days.

She wiped the water from her eyes, the dried tearstains running down her cheeks. She reached over and grabbed the worn piece of charcoal from above her pillow of rags, scratching a single line on the concrete wall to her left. There were many identical to the line she'd scored in the wall. Seventy seven identical lines, to be exact. She added a new one every morning, and this morning was number seventy eight. The scribbles on the walls reminded her of the mystery man who had guided her through the empty halls of Aperture, before Wheatley had.

Her chest ached. Wheatley.

Seventy eight tick marks on the wall, seventy eight days she's been out here, and seventy eight days since he'd shut down.

She didn't know what it was like – she didn't know if he could think or feel or know right then. She didn't know what it was like to be dead, but she knew that she wasn't giving up. She would stay out here until the day she died if she had to, if it meant finding another plug.

Chell was never a very religious person – to be honest, she didn't know much about it. But every night she wished and hoped and maybe even _prayed_ that, if he could, he knew that she was always thinking of him, that she was always looking, that she hadn't forgotten.

She swung her legs over the old stainless steel countertop that she slept on. A quick glance around the room told her that she needed to find food. A rack of kitchen knives on a shelf in front of her prompted a hunt. She grabbed one, sure that the game wasn't as plentiful in the middle of the city as it was at their old house, in the middle of the woods, but it was worth a shot.

A frown had settled itself on her face over the past few days. It had been so long and not one plug she'd brought to her tiny den was like his. Not one would fit in his port and not one would wake him up.

There was a small family of deer that had recently taken up residence in the old metro station, and she was fairly certain that she'd be able to get at least one of the foals. Knife clutched tightly in her hand, she descended the steps, but it was a flash of brown and white to her muddled mind as the deer darted past her. She slashed fruitlessly at the air and saw the last deer's white tail disappear over the top step, cursed loudly and gave chase.

Too much had escaped from her these last months and this would not be one of them. She was killing that deer, no questions asked.

Her feet pounded the pavement of the street, an unfamiliar feeling under her feet after years of tile and then the sweet reprieve of grass and dirt. Her strides were uneven at first and she watched as the deer sprang ahead, but her feet found the proper rhythm, propelling her forward.

The game veered into another building, jumping through the broken glass of a small shop in a run down alley way. Chell skidded to a stop as she came to the alley. She hadn't known this was here, and she was sure that the deer knew the terrain better than she did.

Still, she wasn't letting them off so easily. She'd get used to the unusual area soon enough, she thought as she gave chase. The small herd sprang though a broken window into a small second hand shop.

She ran towards it, jumping effortlessly through the broken glass as she would have done a portal. Her shoes skidded on the grimy tile floor, but she had the deer. She could hear them bumping around in the back of the store and shoved an old, nonfunctional ice cream cooler into the gap of the window. Those deer weren't leaving until they were dead, that much was for certain.

She darted around the aisles, listening to the sound of hooves on tile, when an unsteady flash of brown and white caught her eye. It stood there, frozen in an attempt to confuse its predator. Unfortunately for it, she was much more intelligent than a stray fox or a forlorn dog. She angled her knife just so that she could swing her arm around and puncture its throat.

She was fast. Her feet barely touched the ground as she attacked the game, which would support her for rations for a good month. A small part of her felt guilt – not for the deer. Hunting wasn't something new to her. But she was hunting for the wrong thing. This was taking valuable time from her day, time that could be spent finding the plug. She shook her head clear as she leapt at the beast. She was _fast_.

But it was faster.

It snapped its head to the side at the last possible moment and leapt away, sending her crashing into the precariously teetering shelf that she had planned to pin it against to keep it from doing to much damage with its death throes. Instead, she slammed her shoulder hard into the rusting metal and found herself on the floor, gaping up at the racks that were rushing to join her.

She only just managed to shield her face from the onslaught of metal that rained down on her. That damned deer was laughing, she fumed as she pulled herself from the rubble. She pulled herself into a crouch, shifting through the mess to find her knife. Without it, she'd have to wrestle it to death, and that would take far too long. She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks as she suppressed her frustration.

Her hands passed over all of the fallen bits and bobs and pieces of shelf in her pursuit of her knife. The thing was an eight inch blade, how on earth was it so hard to find? She glanced up, still listening to the scrabbling of the trapped deer and reprimanding herself for wasting so much time, when she spotted it lying a few feet away. It must have slid across the floor when she dropped it. She reached a hand out for it.

And stopped.

Oh, God.

Her breath caught and her eyes widened. Draped across the hilt of the knife, fallen from one of the higher shelves that had crashed, was a light gray cord, at the end of which bloomed a three pronged lead, each prong a circular piece that connected to the next in a sort of bulbous triangle.

Oh, _God_.

For a moment, she couldn't remember what to do next. She was in something that resembled shock, only it felt more like relief than anything. Her fingers gently curled around the gray wire and grazed over it, unearthing it from the mess of fallen things it was under. Carefully, carefully. As far as she was concerned, it might as well have been made of glass and spun sugar. Out it slid, lead, box and plug, and she saw that it was moderately longer than the last one.

An unusual feeling on her arm jolted her out of her state. She looked down, expecting to see a spider or wasp whose home she'd disturbed in the fall, but there was none, only a small rivulet of water trickling down her arm.

One tear. Just enough to snap her out of her stupor and remind her just what she held in her hands.

She forgot the knife completely and dashed to the front of the store, clutching the wire close to her chest. She shoved the ice cream case out of the way, clearing her path and the path of the deer. She'd let them go; she didn't need them, and she was more than happy to see them dart back to the metro where they'd made their home.

Home.

Chell took one last look at the plug, to make sure she still held it in her iron grip, looked at the position of the sun to determine what time it was – it had just peaked noon – and took off at full speed towards Stone Bridge.

* * *

><p>The house was quiet when she arrived. Curtains drawn and lights off, rooms dark. It didn't feel like home to her, not without his senseless babble, his warm greetings, or even just the sound of his voice. She shivered as she remembered why she'd left in the first place. Her fingers tightened around the thin cord and she bit down on her lip as she entered that room, the guestroom she'd left him in that served as a temporary tomb.<p>

Days and nights and restless thoughts had distorted her memory, made everything seem so much more nightmarish. Her journey home had been filled with dread, the nagging fear of seeing him, broken, off, _dead_. Her mouth fell open at the sight of him now, lying in the bed nestled comfortably in the linen, and she was surprised at just how _peaceful_ he looked.

He could have been asleep.

She felt the sides of her mouth twitch up briefly before she plugged him in. First the wall plug, then the lead to his port. She felt it slide in effortlessly as ever, the familiar, gentle click of the connection being made.

She released a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding and felt the strange heaviness of fatigue. _'Finally,'_ was all she could think as she climbed into the bed next to him, limbs trembling, _'You're safe.'_ She pressed her ear up against his chest and let the gentle hum of his CPU lull her into her first peaceful sleep in three months.

Chell opened her eyes. She'd forgotten what it was to feel calm, to know that everything was okay. He was there, lying peacefully in front of her, and she smiled. The color had returned to his cheeks and his once ashen gray, corpse like synthetic skin was now a healthier shade, with almost feverish tinges of pink peaking his cheeks and nose. She reached a hand up, brushing gently against his face. She wondered if he could feel him, though unable to move.

She moved closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and lifting her head to him, nuzzling against the curve of his neck. She lay there for a moment, pressed against him, before she rested her head on his chest and moved her hand from his cheek to the back of his neck. Her fingers wrapped around the small silver lead and carefully removed it, feeling it click out of place. The whirring in his chest grew louder, his breathing picked up and his fingers, intertwined with hers, twitched as he stirred.

He made a deep, purely mechanical noise as he came back on line, succeeded by a half moan and a sigh. He pulled his hand from hers and wrapped his arms around her, bowing his head and burying it in the crook of her neck. He held her tight, focusing on every move she made. Everything was real this time, the first true sensation he'd felt in how long?

The smell and feel of her hair, her weight in his arms – he hummed into her shoulder, feeling her hand run through his hair, over the kill switch, down his back, coming to a rest at his waist. He sighed heavily into her. "How long has it been?" he asked, gruffly, still disoriented.

Her face was still pressed firmly into his chest. "Three months," she said, the noise muffled. "I never stopped. I never stopped looking, I was always thinking about you, every second-"

"I know," he crooned into her hair, holding her closer. "I know."


	31. Before Aperture

Chell pressed the small, hard-bound book to her chest as she picked through the foliage. The sun was high overhead, signaling the decline of noon. She smiled to herself – she wasn't due home for several more hours, at least according to Wheatley's schedule. But today was special, and she'd only gone out for the book. It was brand new – she'd taken if from the tiny bookshop on the corner of Maple street, a place she seldom visited – crisp and clean and unlike any of the other books in their house, things that had come from the rubble of the city with torn covers and ashen pages. This one glowed in comparison.

She skid down the last of the fallen rubble and arrived on their block. She could see her house, and she quickened her pace.

Wheatley sat on the bed and thrust a hand into his pocket, nervously fingering the tiny box. There were still several hours before she got home, which gave him plenty of time to figure out what he was going to say to her when she did. Of course, this wasn't the first time he'd given her something. Those times she'd bring him on scavenges, he would occasionally find something and smuggle it home, then surprise her later that evening. Often he was unsuccessful in keeping it a secret, but this – he'd had this tiny box for two, three months, dropping it from pocket to pocket and always keeping it on his person.

He felt a slight fear creep through his circuits that he couldn't quite understand. He'd lived with Chell for ten years. To the day. Even now, he counted his lucky stars, and was very content to count them from a safe distance away, on solid ground.

The door opened and his head snapped up at the sound. He pulled his hand quickly from his pocket, stood, smoothing out his shirt, and went to greet her.

Chell concealed the book inside her jacket as he gave her a quick hug. A sly smile tugged at her lips – he'd never been good at hiding emotion, and his jerky movements and the steady hum of his internal fan gave it away.

His smile was much more amusing than hers, and it always had been. A big, goofy, lopsided grin that spread from ear to ear, and was utterly _contagious_. He took her free hand and led her to the small couch in the living room. "Do you remember how, on the first night I came here, how you fixed my clock, my internal clock, keeps track of all those dates and times and numbers? Remember that?" he asked her, eagerly. She nodded, her grin widening into a full fledged smile.

He laughed nervously and stared at his lap. "Now, normally, I'm – I'm complete _rubbish_ with dates – er, times. Times and dates and days, things of that sort. But you – and this is in no way, any sort of blame directed towards you. None. – but you sort of… reset it, accidentally, I'm sure. And, since you put it in fully functioning order, and it's stayed that way… you'll never guess what today is."

She nodded. "Ten years," was all she said, and even though Wheatley was glad he hadn't simply over reacted at the date, he was slightly disappointed that she got it.

She reached into the folds of her jacket and withdrew the small rectangular object – a book. She handed it to him and he received it delicately, running his fingers over the textured leathered binding. His first thought was of her tiny book, long ago filled and stored away in a small chest of memories they shared. But there was fine golden print on the cover of this one, in a neat type write that read 'Machiavelli: The Prince.'

A gradual smile formed on his lips. _This was the book_. That book he'd read as an omnipotent godhead, among the hundreds of others in Aperture's electronic library. For quite some time, he'd racked his memory banks, trying to remember the name of the book. Being forcibly torn from Her chassis had messed with his memory of the time. To be honest, it was difficult to remember much detail of anything; it was all sensation, like Chell's memory of her first life. He could recall the anger, and the want. He had a vague impression of her anger, her determination, and of Her patronization that had tipped him over the edge. He knew he'd wanted her dead – that want was too strong to forget, stronger than anything the Euphoric Solution had provided – and he knew he did terrible things, but beyond that, he couldn't remember details, like where he'd found the old test chambers, or the name of the book. He just remembered reading it, and liking it.

But she remembered. He wasn't surprised she remembered, brilliant as she was. Not to mention the fact that her senses, every part of her had been on edge at the moment, what with him stabbing her in the back and trying to kill her.

With her guidance and no small amount of determination and patience, he'd learned to read and write fluently over the years, though he still disliked the feel of holding a pencil. So it was safe to say that he was _enthralled_ to finally have the book, to be able to read it again and actually remember it this time.

He expressed his gratitude and set the book in his lap, one hand plunging into his pocket, the other thrumming away on his thigh. He withdrew the small box and handed it to her with a sheepish smile. Oh, he hoped she liked it.

She took the box and pulled the lid off. Inside, nestled in a protective square of velvet foam, was a thin gold chain and a tiny gold pendant. She scooped it out of the box and held it level with her eyes, which were wide and, Wheatley saw with growing dismay, watery.

Her vision blurred as she brushed her thumb over the small heart shaped pendant. The corners of her mouth twitched down as she had the strangest feeling she'd seen this before.

The image flashed across her mind in an instant, and she immediately knew why the pendant made her feel this way. Sunshine and a bustling street and her hand in his, soft lips and kind green eyes that sparkled when he saw how much she loved the gift.

Greg. She remembered him, and him alone – it was her sole memory of the life that was claimed by Science. She didn't think, after all this time, that she'd ever remember anything about her life before Aperture. Her breath caught in her chest and she brought her hand to a rest in her lap, still staring down at the necklace through a hazy fog.

Wheatley's quiet voice snapped her out of her memory. "Oh. You don't… you don't like it, do you, luv?" he sounded as if he'd expected this for some time. Her head snapped up and she quickly blinked away the water in her eyes.

"No! It's… Wheatley, it's beautiful. I love it." She said, her voice hushed. "But I just… remembered something. From a long time ago." She heard her voice crack and felt his hand on her knee.

"From before?" he asked her in an excited, nervous awe and she nodded. "What was it?"

"A man." She said, an unfamiliar feeling creeping into her chest. "He was…"

She never told him what he was. The light smile that splayed across her lips, lighting her whole face up, was answer enough.

Wheatley reached up and wiped the water from her face with the hem of his sleeve. "M'sorry." He said, cupping her cheek in his palm; she absently raised a hand to meet his. "I didn't mean to… it must be awful, being stuck here. Having left a whole life behind, I didn't mean to… to make you realize… how much you missed."

Chell thought about his words. She had missed so much of her life because of Aperture. She'd had everything she'd ever known torn from her and replaced with tests and trauma and loneliness… and Wheatley.

She glanced at the pendant necklace still in her right hand.

"Wheatley," she started, "I loved him, so much. I remember that." Her fingers slid from his and she bowed her head against his hand, which he was reluctant to move away. She reached up behind her neck and hooked the clasp together. When her hands dropped back into her lap, she smiled up at him, the pendant hanging from around her neck. "But this…" her smile widened. "This is so much better."


	32. Choke

Chell shuddered under the covers as Wheatley knocked on the door; his voice echoed through the room, making her head pound as another violent cough racked her body. The stabbing pain in her chest returned with the motion and she doubled over, gasping for breath. Her throat was raw from the coughing and she was lightheaded and nauseous.

She grimaced as the pain came to an eventual stop, leaving a dull ache in her chest and her face flushed. Chell was sick, there was no question about it – even Wheatley knew that she hadn't been in her top physical condition in the last few months. It was frightening, that whatever this was hadn't passed in a week or two, even a month. It'd been more than a year since the cough had started the day they danced.

The knock came at her door again, accompanied by his worried voice, "Luv, p-please, open the door. Please? I… I just want to help. I can help." He pleaded. Hearing him only made her hurt more. He didn't understand why she wouldn't let him in; she hadn't talked to or seen him for three days. She would have to come out at some point, to plug him in, she reminded herself as he knocked again.

She coughed, the motion making her chest hurt. She wanted him there, at her side, holding her and telling her she'd be fine, but she wasn't that _selfish_.

No, she wouldn't let him in, no matter how lonely she was. She wasn't mad at him, in any way. That wasn't why she had locked him out. She was in quite a state, and he didn't need to be bothered by her. This wasn't some cold that he could heat some rabbit broth for and she'd be okay – she'd realized this after the first month of chest pains and coughing – and she didn't want him to worry. It would pass soon enough anyway, and she'd be better to the point where she could at least move around the house, interact with him, apologize.

She gasped and coughed again.

She knew what this was. Since the day she'd been released, she hadn't thought about it, or any of the dangerous chemicals she'd been exposed to during her tenure in Aperture. She'd shrugged it off at the time, all that had mattered to her was getting out, and if her skeleton melted the moment she stepped foot on the surface, she could have been okay with that.

Of course, her skeleton _wasn't_ melting.

Chell coughed again, choking on the air that couldn't seem to fill her lungs fast enough.

"Luv?" she heard, over her own deafening noise. "Please answer me. What's happened to you?"

Chell refused, merely pulling the covers closer, hoping to restore some of her body heat. Wheatley didn't need to know that she was this sick. The worst of it came and went, and she'd be okay in a day or two. But him… He'd be worried for weeks after she got better.

_Knock-knock-knock!_

She cringed and curled away.

She felt a heat rise in her throat, straining behind her eyes.

_Knock-knock-knock!_

Chell drew a shuddering gasp. "_GO AWAY!"_ she screamed, her voice cracking and reverberating off of the walls, throat nearly rupturing at the stain of the volume. Tears broke forth from the dam and she buried her face in her pillow.

The knocking stopped.

* * *

><p>Wheatley stood on the other side of her door, hand curled in a loose fist, positioned to knock again. His brow was furrowed and his lips were set in a hard line.<p>

"O-okay. Allright, then. I'll… I'll just… leave you to it, then? Won't hear a word from ol' Wheatley! But, if you need anything, don't… don't hesitate to let me know. If you… do. I'll be right outside. Right here." He coughed, maybe just to fill the sudden silence, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched and moved down the hall to his own room.

He knew she trusted him – after 13 years, there wasn't a doubt in his mind. He wrung his hands together and settled on top of his bed, staring blankly at the bookshelf. He didn't feel like reading. He replayed their last conversation over in his memory banks, eyes closed. Had he done or said something to make her hole herself up in her room for three days and yell at him?

It was hours, that he sat there in the dark, legs crossed, hands in his lap and his eyes closed, a small frown plastered onto his face. He couldn't figure it out. Every possible misstep he'd made with her was almost immediately dismissed by an affectionate gesture of hers. Hours later, he wasn't any closer to understanding than he was when he was standing outside her door.

He knew one thing, though.

Something was _very_ wrong.


	33. The Lake

Summer was grueling and winter was harsh and frozen, but it was the in between months that the weather was perfect. The alcohol thermometer that Wheatley had built – the product of many weeks of trial and error – sat proudly on the patio in the back, reporting a comfortable seventy seven degrees in the spring. It was a reasonable temperature, but still bothersome. The air was broken and Chell didn't have the means to fix it yet, and even with all the windows open it was still a ghastly eighty five in the well-insulated house. Chell sighed, noticing how summer had come about faster than last year, and alarmingly hot. She dreaded to think how the weather would be in the height of the summer – she'd have to fix the unit so Wheatley wouldn't overheat, housebound as he would be.

Today was not that day. She fanned herself absently; she wanted to do something with him, since he had been cooped up in the house all winter and was soon to be trapped within its confines for the summer. The problem presented to her was what? A trip into the city would seem too obviously piteous. They'd been out scavenging together more times this week than they usually go in a month. She glanced over at him – he was sitting in the kitchen with the book in front of him, brow furrowed deep in concentration. Chell smiled. He really had come far; Aperture had equipped him with minimal literacy skills, seeing no use for it in his line of work. He was programmed to recognize a few words, mostly to help him navigate the maze-like halls of the facility. However, they had given him the ability to learn, and it was with that Chell had taught him how to read and write. She could see his lips tracing the words. Machiavelli was a great deal harder than the standard books that they kept around the house, but she had confidence in him.

Still, her discomfort in the heat was obviously only a fraction of his – she could hear his fans whirring from the living room, and every so often he wiped absently at his forehead. Of course he didn't sweat as she did but there were apparently a few engineers who had worked at Aperture who were very good at making him seem as lifelike as possible.

Chell stood abruptly. "Let's go to the lake." She announced.

Wheatley's quiet muttering stopped. "Let's… what?" he asked, looking up in confusion.

"The lake, in the next neighborhood. Let's go to the lake."

He paused, marking his page with the ribbon and setting the book on the table. "As far as I'm aware," he started, "lakes are _usually_ rather large bodies of water. You know… not exactly a puddle. I can't just step in it, boots won't protect me, on that front." He chuckled nervously. "Convincing act, I know, but I _am_ still, ah, mechanical."

"I know. Come on," she gathered a bottle of water, dried venison and a spade. Still met with worried looks from her companion, she continued. "It'll be fine. We can sit up on the bank and fish. It'll be cooler there." She grabbed his arm and hauled him up, handing him a fishing reel. "What's the worst that could happen?" she smiled broadly.

He returned her smile, though his held a trace of doubt. "Off the top of my head?"

The lake was, in fact, several degrees cooler. He hated to admit it, but the gentle lapping of the water against the bank was a soothing one that calmed his nerves. Oh, no pleasant sound in the world could make him go within ten feet of the tide – he'd read somewhere that the tide was this ghastly thing that moved further up the bank of its own accord. No thank you. But it was pleasant all the same.

The rest of the trip was mad, to him. Chell made him strip all the way down to some ridiculous, vibrant underclothes. She'd called them swimming trunks, and he took the opportunity to thoroughly reassure her that he would, under no circumstances whatsoever, being doing any swimming of any sort. She'd only smiled and promised she wouldn't try to make him.

Not only that, but there they were lying on the ground on giant towels. He didn't get it…

Chell propped herself up on her elbows. "You okay?"

He nodded. "All things considered, this is actually rather pleasant. I would have never imagined it, being a rippling lake of death and all, but there it is!" he tugged at the swim shorts. "But I still don't get it. I mean, you get this strange… leotard _thing_, and all I'm wearing are shorts. Not very protective, is it?" he glanced over to her. "Ah, what are you doing?" he asked.

Chell was now on her hands and knees, scooping out the sandy earth beneath her. He watched curiously as she piled the displaced sand next to her, packing it down with her hands.

"Sandcastle." She stopped her labors to sit and look at him. "Want to try?"

He stared blankly at the lump of sand. "What's it supposed to do?"

She began molding the block, scooping chunks of it away in some places and adding more in others. "It's going to look like a castle when it's done." She explained, continuing.

Wheatley decided to try his hand at this strange art. It was slow going in the beginning. When he first dug his hands into the damp sand, he'd panicked. Unsure of what it would do to him. But it seemed that the sand was absorbent enough to protect him, and he continued bravely on with a warning not to dig too deep. Otherwise, she told him, he'd hit water, and that was the last thing he wanted.

His second hesitation arose from the peculiar sensation of the sand clumping and sticking to his fingers. It was worse than the dough that Chell made bread with. He glanced at her and saw that the sand was not attacking him, nor was it biased against androids (it was doing the same to her) so he'd shrugged it off and continued.

In no time flat, he had a giant, slightly deformed block of sand. Chell's was not a partially uncovered castle, the peaks and towers and part of a drawbridge sticking out of the top.

A thought suddenly struck him: besides the vague, half-formed image that Chell had created, sitting before him, he had never really _seen_ a castle before, and thus had little idea of what a castle was actually supposed to look like. The closest comparison he could honestly think of was what had, at one point, been his lair. But that had taken several years, several hundred men, and several _million_ dollars to build. He highly doubted it could be rebuilt in a half an hour out of sand.

Besides, he thought, looking at hers, it was a poor excuse for a castle.

Wheatley scooped sand from his block, unsure of exactly what it was that he was trying to form. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing – then again, he thought, she _must_ have had more practice. He frowned in concentration, digging away at the sand, replacing it when he made a mistake and cursing under his breath. Every so often, he heard Chell laugh. He looked up once and was met by the image of her sitting next to a completed sand castle.

He looked at his own sand structure, a life sized replica of a turret, sides closed and unthreatening. Maybe he hadn't quite gotten the point. He pressed the pad of his thumb into the front of the sculpture, the oblong indentation serving as the optic and stood, wiping the sand from his knees and hands, now that it had dried. Chell joined him, an absolute wreck, and admired his work.

"A sentry turret," he said, "to protect your castle."


	34. Antifreeze

The temperature, after the month of July, dropped steadily. From the high nineties, eighties, seventies, sixties, then more rapidly, forties and twenties and then down to single digits, negatives even. There were masses of blankets piled together on one bed – wool, fleece, anything that would keep them warm. A fire was constantly going in the living room, the heat was always on, yet it was still freezing.

They slept together in the winter months, nestled comfortably against one another in the guest room, playing off of each other's body heat. It was wonderful to have her safe and sound asleep next to him. He wrapped an arm around her and held her close to him, feeling her ribcage expand with every breath she took and he lay there with her and closed his eyes, quiet and content for hours on end until she woke up.

He didn't produce much heat of his own, only the residual heat energy from his internal components, but it was enough to keep her warm and to prompt her body to produce its own warmth. _That_ feeling, her warmth, was splendid. For humans, body heat meant _life_. Warmth meant that, despite the fact that she lay motionless under the covers, she was alive. It was when humans went cold and clammy that scared him.

He kept telling himself that she was fine as long as she was warm and breathing and he understood that as truth, but he still felt a wave of relief every morning when she opened her eyes, rolling over to smile at him.

"Good morning, luv," he said, moving the hair from her eyes.

"Morning," she responded sleepily. She rose from the bed, excusing herself from the room to change from her pajamas as he busied himself with his own. Winters this cold usually required heavier clothes than the standard tee shirts the summers allowed for. The cold called for long sleeve shirts, jackets, heavy pants and a pair of hiking boots, much like Chell's. If that wasn't enough to keep him warm, he wore another jacket over the first one, resulting in a warm fluff of clothes that made it mildly difficult to bend his arms.

She had glanced at the thermometer outside, which reported negative forty. She couldn't remember temperatures being this low before, even for the dead of winter.

"Ch-chell!"

She looked up from the thermometer in the direction of Wheatley's room. "Chell? I have a bit of a… ah, a bit of an issue. Can you… _Gack!_" There was a tremendous crash from the bedroom that made her dart forward, bounding towards him and having to catch the doorframe to stop her momentum.

There he was, lying sprawled on top of his fallen dresser, looking innocently up at her. "Now, you might not understand, I get it. But, just let me explain… I, uhm… I can't… move…" he said. While there was a steady worry rising in her, Chell couldn't help but stifle a laugh. She slapped a hand over her mouth and snorted. "Yes, I'm sure this looks absolutely _ridiculous_ from up there. However, I really can't move. My hydraulic fluid has frozen. Turns out the engineers really _didn't_ anticipate me making it to the surface, or deep freeze Cryo, apparently."

She lifted him up, chuckling quietly. After some scrambling, she was able to get him back onto the bed. "Thank you, luv." He grunted. "Listen: normally, I wouldn't ask, but can you… can you make a bit of a run down to the old hardware store and get Antifreeze? Very useful, at this point. I'd get it myself, but then there's the whole… not moving thing…"

Chell laughed lightly and helped him settle back into bed as best he could with almost complete paralysis. She pulled the covers over him and told him she'd be back in an hour, to stay warm. She placed a kiss on his forehead before donning her coat and snow boots and heading into the city.

The snow had stopped falling, leaving a clean white blanket two feet deep. Her feet plunged deep into the snow, but she ploughed on regardless. The hardware store was closest in the city to the house; she would be home in no time with his Antifreeze.

* * *

><p>Chell came through the front door, freezing, damp and toting a two gallon bottle of Antifreeze. Wheatley heard the door slam shut, usually a good sign that she was home. With the absence of Chell's body heat, his own temperature had dropped drastically, freezing his hydraulic fluid and rendering him unable to move his limbs. When she'd left, she'd had the foresight to pull the sheets over him, providing him with enough warmth to keep him from developing serious functional issues.<p>

She was thoroughly frazzled from the cold; her cheeks and the tip of her nose were a violent pink, the warmth soothing the frostbite. He spied the jug of deep red fluid in her hand. "Oh, thank you! That's tremendous. Okay, now the next part is _really_ easy. Just unscrew the cap there – right." Chell turned the white plastic cap, which twisted off with a crack. "And now, ah… now I just need to drink it." He said. Chell cocked an eyebrow and gave him one of those looks that told him he was completely off his rocker. "Just trust me on this, please? I'm _sure_ this is how we're supposed to do this."

She looked him over. He was almost completely paralyzed by the cold; he obviously knew more about his body than she did. Chell moved forward, pressing the rim of the bottle to his lips and tipping it slightly. He drank deeply, only occasionally sputtering when she tipped it too far, too fast. She apologized and pulled the container back, letting him resume his own pace. He drained nearly the entire bottle. It had startled her when he pushed himself to a sitting position against the headboard, pushing the jug away, coughing.

There was – maybe – a few ounces of Antifreeze left in the bottle. She replaced the lid and made a mental note to get more as he righted himself.

They ended up sitting on the edge of the bed together. A smile crept onto her lips as he flexed his joints experimentally. "So. Antifreeze. The bottle says it'll keep you moving up to negative seventy five degrees." She paused, looking at the information on the faded label. "Want to test it?"

Wheatley stiffened next to her. "In the snow?" He asked; her smile widened and she pulled him up. She'd hid them from him as a sort of a Christmas gift, the wellies and the leather gloves and coat. She was confident that they would protect him, along with his other winter wear, from the snow. They wouldn't move into the deeper snow trenches, and they'd stay on trusted paths that Chell knew weren't difficult to maneuver. And so they'd walked hand in hand down the winder roads in their neighborhood.

It was beautiful, he thought in awe, but every line of code of his programming told him that it was dangerous, that he needed to find shelter – but he knew, in a less instinctual part of his mind, that he was fine. He held her hand in his, gloved fingers curled tightly around hers, as they walked on, leaving behind two pairs of footprints on the perfect snow.


	35. The Attic

The air was still broken.

Spring was only days away from ending, and the heat was going to pick up fast afterwards. She'd found the necessary wrench – having so long looked for the smaller, delicate tools to repair Wheatley, she'd never once thought to look for larger, less pristine tools that humans had once used to repair their own machinery.

The unit was in the attic.

They'd both specifically avoided the attic since the day they'd moved in. While it was true that the house was in _superb_ condition for post-apocalyptic suburbia, there was no telling the condition of the attic, or if it would hold her weight. But allowing the heat inside the house to go unchecked was more of a threat than the potential instability of the attic, however, thus she found herself standing at the foot of an old wooded ladder that ascended into the darkness of the upstairs storage with Wheatley at her side to spot her. With one foot on the ladder, his hands were at her hips, guiding her, ready to catch her if she fell. The ladder was rickety and his nervous chatter didn't stop until her foot disappeared over the edge of the attic door. He fell silent for a moment as Chell stiffened on her hands and knees, griping for a light switch. Her fingers brushed the plastic plate and flipped the switch. The light flickered on and there was a violent _pop!_ before the room was bathed in darkness again.

"Are you allright?" he called from the foot of the stairs. She could hear the soft tinkle of glass under his voice.

"I'm fine," she called back, "but I can't see anything. I need a flashlight."

"Alright, luv." He said, and the ladder gave a dangerous lurch as he stepped up onto it.

"No!" she exclaimed, ears straining for his movements. There was a relieved creak as he planted both feet firmly on the ground. "In the kitchen, third drawer from the left." She instructed.

Moments later he returned, reaching one arm up through the opening in the ceiling. The light was on, and illuminated a decent portion of the attic. She took it from him with a thank you.

His voice returned. "Can you see anything? Anything at all? What about the machine? Is it up there?

"Yeah, it's here." She replied, glass crunching under her boots. So was a lot of other stuff, she thought absently as she maneuvered the attic. There was an old trunk, a hand cranked phonograph with old records – Classic Jazz. Tommy Dorsey's _Stardust, Chicago, Come Rain or Shine_ and Carmen Cavallaro's _Stormy Weather_, _Body and Soul_, and Artie Shaw's _Back Bay Shuffle_. Old things she'd never heard of – a leather bag containing straight razors…

This house, much like every other on the block, had obviously been looted when its previous occupants had either left or died. But all this stuff up here, the thieves must have missed it all, probably didn't even know it was up there.

Chell tore her attention from the forgotten antiques and refocused it on the unit. That's why she was up there – and anything else came later.

She moved carefully towards the air conditioner, avoiding the rotting wood and testing every step. When she stood in front of it, she held the flashlight up to the machine and plucked her tools from her belt, holding the small flashlight between her teeth.

While Chell wouldn't usually let Wheatley touch broken electronics, he was a genius when it came to telling what was wrong with them. He'd laughed, reminding her that he _being_ a machine and having spent his whole life around other machines must have taught him something. He must've picked up more than the engineers gave him credit for. He'd diagnosed the problem as the switch. When they turned the air on from downstairs, he'd explained, there wasn't even so much as a failed start to the machine. It literally hadn't turned on at all. Chell had found the necessary part and, after the years of manual repairs, was confident she could fix it. She'd become something of an electrician since Wheatley had landed.

Her curiosity had peaked as she repaired the unit, and when Wheatley turned it on and they were met by the "clunk-clunk-clunk-chnnnnnng" of a working machine, she told him to stand back, away from the ladder, and dropped the trunk down, followed by the bag – the razors would be useful in skinning game, and she might be able to make leather. If she could make leather, she might be able to make a coat for Wheatley so he could venture outside of the house in the colder months before the snow.

She peered over the edge of the attic door to see Wheatley looking up at her, waiting with his arms outstretched. "Your turn," he said with a smile. Chell couldn't suppress the laugh; he wanted her to jump. "I'll catch you," he reassured her, reaching further up to her.

Without a second thought, she swing her legs over the edge and let herself fall. It wasn't a terribly long drop. Seven or eight feet at the most, but the ground still rushed to meet her.

Then his arms wrapped around her middle as he stopped her descent. He gently lowered her until her feet touched the ground.

* * *

><p>They spent the rest of the evening going through the trunk, admiring the trinkets and mementos from another world – someone else's memories. An old porcelain doll, baby shoes, a few silver spoons…<p>

It was the photo album that intrigued them the most. The people depicted in the photos were a young couple with not very many memories. What Chell assumed was their first date, senior prom, graduation, and assorted pictures of their daughter. The caption below the hospital picture read "Annabel."

"What's going on here?" Wheatley asked, pointing to the only picture that did not have a caption.

"That's their wedding," she answered as she began to turn the page. He planted his hand firmly on the middle of the book, preventing her from doing so.

"Their what?" he slid the book onto his lap.

Chell pursed her lips, leaning back into the chair and contemplating how to explain it to him. "When two people love each other very much," she began, dumbfounded that she was actually giving this speech, "And they want to be together for the rest of their lives, they have a legally binding ceremony – the wedding – that represents their love for one another. They move in together and they, uhm… well, they live happily ever after, I guess."

Wheatley was silent for a beat. She glanced over and saw that he was still staring at the photo.

"Well that's _stupid_." He announced. 'I mean, look at us!" he looked up at her. Chell's eyebrows arched in surprise, bit it went unnoticed by her partner. "We've been living together for _years_. We're perfectly fine, and we haven't had any of that silly wedding nonsense!"

She smiled at him and he recognized it as one of her you-say-the-most-ridiculous-things smiles. Fearing he'd said something wrong, he quickly backtracked. "Unless… unless you _wanted_ all that silly wedding nonsense – not that it's nonsense! But, I mean, let's be fair, you never, ah… _hinted_ at it, or – or mentioned it in passing, have you? Or maybe I'm just oblivious…"

She laughed. It was a reassuring sound that let him know she wasn't upset. "No." her laughter trailed off. "No, you're right. It is ridiculous, when you think about it." She admitted.

She failed to point out to him that marriage would be virtually impossible in the world they lived in, that marriage wasn't strictly a two-person affair. Bit it didn't matter, she thought, because he was right. Marriage or no, she was perfectly happy.


	36. Cry

Chell woke groggily. A glance at her watch told her she'd been asleep for eighteen hours. Her chest ached from the nonstop dry coughing, but the worst of it had passed, for now. She breathed as deeply as she could, considering the sharp pain, and sat up in bed.

She did the math:

Provided she'd only been asleep for one day, it'd been _four_ days since she'd been outside of her room. Wheatley had been off the plug for about a day before that, so he was due for a charge. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and bit past the wave of dizziness, stumbling to the other side and grabbing his cord from the nightstand. She unlocked the door with a soft click.

* * *

><p>Wheatley sat in the living room, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. It'd been four days since she'd yelled at him, and he still couldn't understand what he'd done wrong. He wanted to talk to her, to make everything okay and to know that she was okay, but she'd been locked in her room for ages, and it was obvious that she didn't want him anywhere <em>near<em> her…

He felt fingers run gently though his hair and looked up sharply in surprise. She stood over him with a soft, sad smile on her lips, the length of grey cord clutched in her other hand. He quickly stood and drew his arms around her. She grunted quietly at his grip and forced her own arms around him. He didn't let go, instead rambling senselessly into her hair. "Honestly, I thought you'd never come out, but oh, I'm so sorry, I just wish I knew what I did because, really, I have _no_ clue. It doesn't matter, welcome back, luv. Please. _Please_ promise me you won't… you won't… oh. _Chell…_" he stopped when he pulled back to look her in the eye, dull and sunken, with dark circled underneath. Her cheekbones were more defines – unhealthily, even. Her lips were pressed into a thin like and she looked tired, as if she hadn't slept in weeks. He tucked the loose hair behind her ear. "Do you remember," he started quietly, "the day I woke you from the Annex? I told you that you looked _great_. Remember that?" he asked. She nodded against his hand as he brought it to her cheek. "I lied. You looked terrible. _Ghastly._ Being asleep for half and eternity can do that to you. But, luv… you look _worse_, now…" he forced the words out, hearing his own voice cracking. "A thousand times worse. What's… what's _happened_ to you?"

She looked away, resting her hand on top of his on her cheek and pressing her mouth to his palm before she walked away, over to the wall, and plugged the cord into the electrical socket, looking back at him with the lead in her hands.

"Oh, no, no, no, no-" he stuttered, spreading his palms. "I'm not going to sleep until you tell me what happened."

He could see her hesitation, torn between his charge and letting go of the knowledge she seemed so intent on keeping locked away. He moved tentatively towards her. "P-please, luv. I just want to help. You… you're miserable, I can see that. Tell me what's wrong." He begged, taking her into his arms again. "I can help."

Chell felt the heat catch in her throat, settling there and forcing tears into her eyes. She rested her head against his shoulder and would have collapsed, had he not caught her, sounding out in alarm as she crumpled against him. He guided them onto the couch and she covered her face with her hands, sobbing quietly. He held her, smoothing down her hair and supporting her tiny, shaking frame. "Oh… oh, Chell… whatever's happened, whatever's happened to you… it'll be okay. I _promise._ I'm right here, luv. I'll always be right here." His voice hitched up an octave at the end as a knot settled itself in his chest.

They sat there together and her quiet sobs became shudders and tear stained cheeks. He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face so that he could look her in the eye. "Do you know what?" he asked her, his voice low and thick with synthesized emotion. He forced a lopsided grin. "Whatever's happened to you, it's going to be okay. Know why?" he put a hand at each side of her face, pushed her hair back and kissed her forehead. "Because there is _no_ test that we can't solve together."

By the end of the night, they were asleep in each others' arms.


	37. Kiss

He was prone to panic attacks. He couldn't explain it – or, rather, he _could_, but was far from willing to admit, even to himself, that there were still traces of the Chassis's paranoia in him. He sat up in the middle of the night, half expecting her to come down stairs wielding the portal gun that she'd kept hidden until the opportune moment. He panicked when she wanted to plug him in and let him charge. He was convinced that she would leave him plugged him, half-dead, and do away with him. He fought her once, wrapping his fingers around her wrist as she reached up to access his port. She glared at him, unwavering when he pushed back, her eyes wide and fearful and _warning him_, but then she'd seen the look on _his_ face – terrified and terribly sorry – and she'd stopped, setting the cord on the table between them.

He looked between it and her, his hands trembling. It was there, that poison voice in the back of his mind that constantly _hissed_ her plans at him. He worried at his bottom lip as the thoughts pushed through his mainframe. "_She's going to get you. She's going to get you. Get _her_._"

He backed up, settling back into the couch and shaking violently. It was never hard to ignore that faint voice – he never wanted to hurt Chell – but just the fact that it was still _there_ frightened him. He took a deep breath and looked up to find her standing over him, smiling apologetically and resting a hand atop his head. They'd ended the night together in each others' arms, a silent promise that neither one was going to abandon the other. He let her plug him in and they fell asleep together. It was the act of ultimate trust for him then, to let her lay with him as he was asleep and vulnerable and unable to do anything.

There were many nights like this, though not all of them ended so pleasantly. More often than not, it would end in a shouting match that dredged up each opponent's worst fears and memories; they each dealt their most painful blows, and the night would end in anger and bitter tears.

But, for the most part, things were pleasant between them, despite the challenges. On nights when neither one of the were at fault – instead, their past haunted them – he was allowed in her room, to sit quietly with her on the bed, cradling her as she shuddered in his arms. Other times, she comforted him, holding him close as he rambled out his senseless stream of apologies as he pressed his face into her stomach. She touched his hair, his face and his hands; she rubbed small circled into his shoulders. It was a reassuring touch that told him that they were on equal ground again. She grabbed his hand as he sat sullenly in front of her, legs crossed, boney knees sticking out at odd angles. She raised his hand to her mouth and gently pressed her lips to the pads of his fingers. He watched in mild confusion as her lips curved into a smile against his hand.

He didn't get this one. He understood most of her gestures: the hand holding, the rocking, the general closeness – he knew these affectionate gestures from his days working with the humans at Aperture – the month or two he'd spent monitoring the testing track had taught him about Human comfort; the time he'd spent working with Aperture's potential customers had taught him that hand holding, hand shaking, it all had to do with familiarity. But this was new.

He pulled his hand back, smiling nervously. He wasn't an idiot, though – it was _obvious_ that, whatever that lips thing was, it was supposed to convey affection. He shifted uncomfortably. Affection, as nice as it was, especially from her, was still foreign to him. It hadn't come as a surprise to Chell that he had hardly been shown the bare minimum of _kindness_ at the facility, let alone affection or compassion. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that this level of familiarity was something he'd never experienced before, having been so accustomed to being kicked around.

She pulled him forward gently and leaned in to meet him, planting a kiss on his cheek. She felt him stiffen underneath her, his muscles tensed and unsure as she backed away. The look on his face was priceless, and she couldn't help but grin. His features expressed a slight pleasure, but pure and utter confusion dominated his expressions, showing through the half-smile and evident in the fact that he didn't keep his gaze still for more than a few seconds. She placed another kiss on his forehead and heard the small noise he made when she did so, chuckling softly as she lay down in her bed, burying herself under the covers. He sat there, absently trying to decide what the appropriate response would be. Silently, he moved around the side of the bed and sat behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder, smiling contentedly as she drifted off to sleep. He wasn't quite sure what that was all about but, he decided, he liked it.


	38. Arms

Wheatley accepted her invitation without a second thought. The outside world scared him, and he had a creeping fear, as he stood on her porch for what he thought would be the last time, that he didn't have a _chance _out there on his own. He knew nothing about the surface world. He'd wrung his hands together as he looked out to the endless wheat and had felt and overpowering relief when she asked him to stay. He didn't know how to thank her – felt he never would be able to – for not turning him out into a world in which he would surely die. It would have been all he deserved, he knew, and by the way Chell – _that_ was her name! Chell! – by the way she didn't talk to him sometimes, he figured she knew it, too. Of course she knew it, he thought dismally one day as she made a run to the city. She wouldn't be back for hours, she'd told him not to worry, because she _was_ coming back. And she'd given him that sad smile that spread all the way from the curves of her lips to her tired eyes.

She was always so tired; he was watching her from the other side of the room, fidgeting. The thought had struck him earlier in the day: she was _tired_ because of him. She was worn out and she didn't want to be doing this, to be taking care of him like a child.

She pitied him.

That was it; pity. It had given him an odd tightness in his chest and made him avoid her gaze. She didn't want him there. She didn't want to trust him or give him a second chance. But she _wasn't_ a monster. She wouldn't – or perhaps _couldn't_ – abandon him in the impossibly vast world that would kill him in an instant. It hurt him in a way he hadn't thought it would. Two years, he'd spent in space, literally doing _nothing_ but thinking about her. He'd shut down the majority of his functions to conserve power, and all that had been left was conscious thought, memories and emotion. He'd spent two years thinking about what he did to her, how he'd apologize, and here they were, only because she pitied him.

He was making her life difficult, _again_.

He wrapped his arms around himself and brought his knees to his chest, curled up on the chair across from her. She sat there with a small bowl of rabbit broth in her hands and a piece of bread. She sometimes ate in the living room – Wheatley disliked the kitchen, for quite a long time. The cool tiles reminded him too much of the laboratories, and though he'd gotten used to the ceramic that covered everything in the small room, staying in the living room had become something of a habit between them. However, that night, both were silent.

"You okay?" she asked, abruptly.

"Me?" he stuttered, just as sudden, surprised by her talking to him. "I'm fine. Right as rain, never been better!"

She drained the bowl and set it aside. "No you're not. What's on your mind?"

He shook his head violently. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing on my mind whatsoever." He frowned when he saw her chuckle. A little rude, if you ask him…

She stood and walked over to him, sitting on the arm of the chair. Her fingers ran through his hair and he felt himself relax. He closed his eyes and hummed softly, leaning into her touch. It was a physical connection and even that small gesture calmed him. The hand dropped to his shoulder and he could feel her pull him into a hug. "I know it's hard," she said softly, "but you're doing great. It'll all get easier, I promise."

He sighed, moving over and pulling her with him, so they were sitting side by side. "Thank you, but it's not that," he said, placing her hands in her lap.

"Then what?"

Wheatley bit down on his lip – a rather painful practice he'd picked up from her. "I just… I really appreciate it, all of it. Because, I know you certainly, ah, didn't _anticipate_ taking care of me like this, and – and you've done a _spectacular_ job and you _could_ have just kicked me out, and you didn't. And I'm _sorry_ because I know I'm the last person you want to be with everyday, and it would be so much easier for _you_ if you'd just let me go, and…" his speech slowed, "…and I wasn't actually supposed to… _say_ that last bit…" he redirected his gaze to his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He'd specifically avoided the topic for months, knowing that one wrong move could very well land him alone in the wheat field.

She smiled and lifted his face so he would look at her. "If I didn't want you here, I wouldn't have asked you to stay."

He raised a hand to his face to cover hers. He could never get over how much smaller her hands were than his, and how much more delicate. Yet this was the powerhouse of a woman who had taken Aperture by storm. "Oh, luv," he mumbled. "You don't have to pretend. I _know_ why I'm here."

She raised an eyebrow and shook her head. "Why?" she asked.

"Pity." Was his simple, hushed answer.

"Pity," she repeated, holding his gaze steady as he tried to turn away.

"I'm sorry," he averted his eyes. "I'm sorry, because I know you don't want me here. I know I should leave, but I…" he shuddered and moved her hand from his cheek. "I just can't bring myself to go." He swallowed hard.

"Wheatley," she said sternly, "I don't _want_ you to go. I want you here, I really do, I – look at me-" He forced himself to look down, meeting her concerned gaze. "After everything that happened, I'm so glad that you're safe; I want to try again. Can we?" she asked. "I want to forget any of that ever happened and I want you to be happy, too." She studied his face; he studied hers and saw the most outright, honest emotion he'd ever seen on her. He pressed his lips together and nodded, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her into his own hug.

The hours passed and they remained together, nestled comfortably against one another. The way she didn't flinch or pull away reassured Wheatley that what she'd told him was truth. She wanted him there; he could tell by the way she held him close and rubbed her cheek against his neck when they hugged and never once tensed against his touch.

He held her with one arm constantly slung around her waist, pinning her to him, the other twisting and rubbing her dark chestnut hair between his fingers. She had her hand over his on her waist as her breathing steadied in sleep. He didn't dare move for fear of waking her but, after a moment, he relaxed. It was an odd feeling, and he wasn't sure what it was for a moment.

Happiness.

A smile crept onto his lips.

_Happiness_. Oh, sure, he's been happy before. But _this_…

He let out a soft chuckle and pressed his cheek against hers.

This.

This was _perfect_.


	39. Radio

Chell woke from a fitful sleep. Dreams had weaved themselves into frantic interpretations of that lone memory – her and Gregory, the man she _knew_ she'd loved. Sometimes, Wheatley was there, too. Those were the ones that left her unnecessarily listless in the morning. There were variations; Sometimes Greg took Wheatley's place. Sometimes Greg lived with them, and she pretended Wheatley wasn't even there. Sometimes, Wheatley took Greg's place…

She opened her eyes, rolling onto her back in the unfortunate tangle of bed sheets she'd created over the course of the night. The morning streamed through the window, curtains drawn.

She looked over and saw him leaning against the door. "Morning," he said quietly, smiling. She muttered her reply, her stomach sour with the memory of last night's dream. He sat at the edge of the bed as she collected herself, smoothing out her hear and straightening her twisted nightclothes. She glanced at him in the process, seeing his ridiculous grin. Despite the dream, she couldn't help but smile. He could hardly contain himself in his enthusiasm. She stopped, too amused to bother with her clothes at the moment and laughed, liking up and seeing him _staring_ at her with that same dumb grin.

"What?" she asked.

"You'll never guess what I found." He said, pulling her from her cocoon of covers. She stumbled out of bed. Chell couldn't imagine what he could have _possibly_ found; he scavenged with her, more often now that they lived in the suburbs, and the days when he was housebound, she brought her haul home and he went through it all, eagerly commenting on each thing before he helped her put it all away.

He practically dragged her into the kitchen. On the counter were several items, most of which she'd never seen before. There was a small, handheld flour sifter, a new tea kettle, a large hunting knife and a large black box.

She looked confusedly at him, picking up the copper tea kettle. The last one had been lost in the fire, the kitchen having been inaccessible. "How…?"

He chuckled nervously. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You go out on you own all the time. I was safe, I promise!"

Despite his reassurances, and the fact that he was safe at home, Chell couldn't help but be worried. She frowned, looking between him and the kettle.

His grin transformed into a grimace. "Please don't be mad," he said, moving closer to her. "I was only out for an hour – two tops! And look; this is the best bit." From the black box, he pulled a small machine, a dark brown radio with cream dials.

Chell smiled gently and set the kettle under the spout, filling it with water. "A radio? Does it work?"

With a soft click of the dial, white noise filled the kitchen as she tuned the stove on and let the water boil. She let it alone and took an interest in the radio, clicking it off, turning it over in her hands and popping off the protective cover on the back.

Wheatley watched her do this and his hand twitched. He'd trusted her with his life before and he trusted her now, but every time he watched her disassemble electronics, a hand flew instinctively to the back of his neck. He clamped his arm to his side to prevent the perfunctory action, forcing himself to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that was produced by pure programming.

She prodded the circuitry, noting several useable parts. "That's good. We can use the fuses… maybe the wires, not likely, though…"

"No, no, no!" he exclaimed, taking it back from her and patching it up, turning it over and switching it on. "We can _use_ it! As a radio!"

Chell shook her head. "A radio requires someone to put out a signal. There are none. I tried, with the last radio we had."

"Should've let me have a go – look!" he twisted the knob frantically, turning it on and flying through tall the frequencies. Chell never thought she'd hear music again. She didn't know very many songs – her time in Cryo had wiped her mind of trivial things like music. She knew the electronic voices of the turrets, and their foreign song they'd sung for her at her departure; she knew smooth jazz and brief classical music. She remembered _one_ song from her lost childhood – the only real song – Daisy Bell.

And this one. It made her skin crawl – not because of the actual song, it was quite catchy, nor because of any memories associated with it, but the thought of where it was broadcasting from. She remembered those select test chambers that her mysterious friend had made dens in. There was a radio in one, chirping out a bouncy little tune.

This tune.

She looked at Wheatley, who was apparently unaware of where the music was actually coming from. He seemed to be enjoying himself, tapping his foot off beat and smiling widely down at her.

This meant that Aperture was still broadcasting.

Still alive! After all this time!

"Chell?" his voice snapped her back to the present. "Are you alright?"

She smiled in response, looking down, startled as the signal abruptly cut off. He looked sadly at it. "Ah – bugger. What-?"

Static replaced the cheery, sickening song. Wheatley thought that perhaps the signal had died on its own, just like that. Chell figured he'd never heard the song, didn't know it was from Aperture, and thus couldn't come to the same conclusion she had: it hadn't shut off; it had _been_ shut off.

It was reassuring to her, in a way, though Wheatley was rather dour about it, that GLaDOS had killed the connection. It was almost Her way of saying that She wanted as much to do with Chell as Chell did with Her.

The kettle screamed and she moved to pour the water into her ceramic mug. A few tea leaves and honey, she took the mug and the radio, setting the latter on the mantle in the living room Wheatley sat next to her and she leaned back.

"You're not mad, are you, luv?" he asked, holding her against him.

She chuckled, looking at the radio. "Of course not." She leaned her head against his shoulder, cradling the mug in her hands. "It's wonderful. Thank you."


	40. The End

There were certain things about Aperture that she would never forget, simply because she didn't want to. Oh, it sounded silly, sure, but there truly were some magnificent things that happened in that place. Things that no human on the surface could ever have imagined. If she were to tell anyone of the portal device or the gels, they'd laugh, they'd call her crazy, and they'd remind her that the laws of physics _do still_ exist. That was Aperture's specialty: skewing reality, achieving the impossible and saying 'screw you!' to everything we thought we knew about our own world.

There were impossible dreams and deadly nightmares locked away behind the steel doors of the shed miles and miles away, and she'd experienced them all, the good and the bad: The portal gun, the fact that she'd punched a hole right through reality, the ability to step through a wall on one side of the room and emerge on the other. She remembered being frightened of that first portal, the one that had appeared on the wall of that glass relaxation chamber. She remembered seeing herself through the exit portal, standing on the other side of the room, passing through the orange portal in her chamber and immediately being on the other side of the glass barrier, and she remembered thinking just how cool that was. The portals were always something she was fond of – they enabled her to use her natural resourcefulness in a way that would have been otherwise impossible. They helped her survive.

Other aspects of the facility, like the Aerial Faith Plates and the Long Fall Boots, the topsy-turvy sensation of falling in complete safety. Flying, without wings, it was all so wonderful, and there were times when the otherwise deadly testing chambers seemed like giant fabricated playgrounds. She couldn't lie to herself, even now, years and years after she'd achieved true freedom: it had been fun. While she wasn't fighting for her life, she had really rather enjoyed it. Sometimes, back there and in her early days on the surface, she wondered if she really had been meant for Aperture. _She was in her element_. Maybe there had been a hint of unintentional truth in the AI's words. Perhaps Chell really belonged there.

Of course, she would shove those thoughts from her mind as soon as they came, laughing it off and finding it ridiculous. But the knowledge that she was _so_ much better off without Aperture didn't change the fact that she had some wonderful memories. Along with the first time she's smelled the bitter scent of Neurotoxin, or the first time she felt a turret's bullet pierce through her flesh, there were also some wonderful first times that she wouldn't trade the world for. The pure adrenaline thrill of dodging those bullets, the sense of pride she felt whenever she completed the nastiest tests the facility had to throw at her. But there were only two things that stood out in her mind at the moment.

One, the excursion funnels.

Just the thought of them, she could still feel the electric tingle of the liquid asbestos against her skin, the cool envelopment that shut out the world around her and filled her with a calm she'd never felt in the facility. Even staring death in the face, floating helplessly in the funnel's confines, she could smile peacefully to herself, clear her mind and make her next calculated decision.

Aperture Science, Cave Johnson himself, had seemed to be fond of asbestos, despite its harmful effects – _"Good news is, the lab boys say the symptoms of asbestos poisoning show a median latency of forty-four point six years, so if you're thirty or older, you're laughing."_ – probably because it was so cheap. Cheap materials, more results. That was what Cave was the fondest of, maybe with the exception of Science and his secretary, Caroline.

Chell closed her eyes and could picture herself in the funnel, being guided across what seemed like a bottomless pit. She sighed deeply, but the pleasant gesture was twisted into a cough that hurt her ribs.

And the second thing was the man who was at her side at the moment. Wheatley, her best friend, an Aperture Personality Construct. It was unthinkable, to her, that she would care so much about something of Hers. But he wasn't Hers, he was his own, and Chell cared about him more than anything. He was by far the best thing that had ever happened to her, the only thing from there that she could honestly say she didn't know what she would have done without. After so many years with him, she couldn't imagine life without him. There was never life without him. She smiled as he took her hand. He looked exactly the same as he did the day he woke her from her long sleep, the day he'd saved her life, while she had aged too fast too soon. Her body was thinner, frailer and weaker than before.

His jaw was set and his eyes were a slightly duller blue than they usually were. Oh, he'd been so angry at her these last few days. She didn't blame him, of course, but she was so happy he forgave her. She'd cried herself to sleep the other night, when he wouldn't so much as look at her. Of course, it didn't take very much to tire her out these days, but the thought of him not being with her now had been unbearable.

His eyes traveled over her face, slowly as if drinking in every trivial detail of her features, storing them away in his memory banks to be forever treasured.

She tilted her head back and a smile settled itself on her face. His eyes immediately locked on her lips, and a similar smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, only to seem to give up half way before he looked back at her slate gray eyes that, in all these years, still held the wild glint of determination. She squeezed his hand and gave it a slight tug, telling him to move closer to her. He obeyed silently, leaning over her and resting his forehead against hers. "Luv?"

Her smile persisted as she lifted her head and kissed him on the mouth. He raised a hand to support her head and cup her cheek, feeling himself lean hungrily into her as he realized just what this kiss meant. But, too soon, she pulled back, exhausted from the tiny amount of energy spent in the affectionate gesture. "I love you." She whispered.

And she slept.

* * *

><p>Wheatley sat on the bed in his darkened room with his face buried in his hands. He'd sat there for hours and didn't think he would move ever again, motionless except for the steady rhythmic expansion of his chest. His fans whirred at the over-input, the onslaught of emotion that he really <em>wasn't<em> built for. Even with his door closed, it wasn't enough space between them, between his room and hers, where she lay peacefully in her bed. He couldn't.

He just couldn't.

Everything hurt. It was the worst electric shock, to have sat there with her and held her hand as she closed her eyes, went limp and stopped breathing.

The same thoughts played over in his head, that it hadn't _really_ happened, that everything was fine.

She wasn't dead.

Oh, but he knew she was. That's what happened to humans; they died. It didn't matter who you were, if you were from Aperture, you were invariably dead. He never thought it would happen to her. He never thought she was included in that rule. She was _Chell_, for God's sake. The woman who killed _Her_. Chell couldn't die. How long had he lived under that assumption?

Seventeen years. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the ceiling. Seventeen years of the best time of his life, all gone, with her.

_Moron__._

His eyes snapped open and his fingers grasped at the soft bed sheets, knuckles turning white.

The house was silent. _Her_ voice was gone. It hadn't been there in the first place.

Aperture.

Really, it was as simple as that? Of course it was. Something uncomfortably and positively _hollow_ settled itself in his chest as he stood shakily from the bed. What was left here, for him? The answer to that was simple, as well: _Absolutely nothing_. Chell was what he'd had, and now she was gone.

But there was always Aperture.

His breath quickened as he stole a glance around the room, as if fearful that he was being watched.

He could just leave. He could go back, pretend that Chell was living happily on her own, and everything would be fine!

Everything would be _just fine._

It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, scattered as distraught as they were. A small part of him screamed with all its might not to go, and he realized he was scared. Scared for the first time in _years_. With one quick stride, he stood in front of the bookshelf, long fingers ghosting over the spines of the old, tattered books he'd collected.

Machiavelli.

He plucked the book from its place on the top shelf, holding it delicately and flipping through the soft pages. He didn't know why, but just the feel of this book calmed him, made everything _that much_ less terrible than it really was. It was like a small part of her.

It would protect him, he decided, wrapping a hand around the doorknob. He took a deep breath and screwed his eyes shut, opening the door, racing down the hall with his head bowed, unwilling to look up until he was halfway into the city, safe from the sight of the house or memories of close-to-home scavenging trips where she'd skirt effortlessly over rubble and beam when he presented her with a novel item.

He shook his head, pushing on, holding the book tighter to his chest. Soon, the pavement under his feet gave way to dirt roads, dirt roads to grass, grass to wheat, until he could barely see where he was going. He followed the path of the declining sunlight and his own instinct. There was just _something_ inside of him, telling him to _turn here_, _go back_, _don't go so far to the right_, so on and so forth, and he just _trusted it_.

Until the wheat thinned out.

A small metal shed sat in the middle of a sea of gold, a place he thought he'd never return. Was this what it looked like from the outside? This was where Chell had come out of, wasn't it?

He turned around, scanning the horizon. He knew the companion cube was out there somewhere; Chell had told him she'd left it behind within the first day of wandering in circles. Should he bring it with him?

His fingers curled around the leather of the book. No. It was just him, and her. He looked back to the shed, swallowing hard and taking a tentative step forward.

_Welcome home, moron._

He shuddered, all but able to hear Her voice echoing up the elevator shafts. He shuffled backwards. This… wasn't right. _Something_ wasn't right.

He didn't want to be alone. He _hated_ being alone. Aperture was his only option, forget whatever She would do to him once he stepped into the shed…

But he didn't move.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't bring himself to go back in there. Maybe it was because he'd spend most of his life trying to escape. Maybe it was because he was still scared of Android Hell, and he knew that if he went back in there, by God, that's where he was going.

Maybe it was because…

He thought about all their years together. He thought about the simple joy she found in the grass, the sunlight, the dirt. It was freedom, and it never got old to her. She helped him enjoy the surface, to be able to revel in the freedom they'd both endured so much for. Those quiet moments lying in the grass at night, staring _painlessly_ at the stars; the sandcastles they built together during hot days at the lake; the day she'd brought him to that secret alcove, _her_ spot, _her_ tranquility and comfort, and let him in, laying there with him in a hypnotized state of comfort, trust, fearlessness… _pure bliss_.

He thought about how she'd held his hand as they explored together – not just the surface, but the unthinkable _depth_ of being there. It was foreign to him, and he'd had no idea how to really live normally. _She'd shown him_. She'd been there the whole time and showed him that _this_ was his home, now, the grass and the dirt and the furry animals. _This_ was where he belonged, more than he'd ever belonged in that steel hell of Science.

He trembled violently as he stood outside the entrance to that very same hell.

The steel door, handle-less and plastered in warning notices, swung open slowly.

It was an unsettling thought, that She knew he was there, standing undecidedly outside Her back door.

He leaned forward and peered down into the darkness, and could hear the _faintest_ of noises, every circuit in his body screaming at the sound. He knew what that was. It was The Song. That sweet lullaby that they shared.

He could almost hear it in her voice, the gentle hum in her throat and the feeling of her leaning against him comfortably.

_That was the night._

The single thought tipped him dangerously over the edge.

_That was the night she'd coughed_.

He pitched forward halfway into the gaping maw of Aperture, supporting himself against the metal of the doorframe. His senseless scream was loud and strained and just as hollow as he felt, making the whole shaft ring with his volume and the sharp echoes bouncing back to him. He wanted to let her know that he was there, that he was _mad as hell_ and that nothing – _nothing_ – was going to get him to go back in there.

He wasn't a part of Aperture anymore.

He wasn't sure if he really ever was.

What came next was a loud string of disjointed thoughts. Whatever came to his mind, he screamed at Her down the elevator shaft. He could hear his voice cracking and his voice chip straining pitifully to process the sheer brutality of his tones. He didn't care. Let the chip break, let him never speak again, as long as he told Her what was on his mind. It was utterly profane and nearly unintelligible, but She was a bloody genius. She'd figure it out.

He felt something in his throat give a great spark and decided it was time to stop, cutting off halfway through a sentence of sorts and slumping down against the metal of the shed, trembling quietly. The song tapered off to an end – just as sweet and sad as he'd remembered it from decades ago – leaving him in silence.

He covered his face with his hands and leaned his head against the metal side of the shed, recovering himself from his small emotional malfunction.

He remembered all those years ago, their first hours together, their escape. It was probably the most painful thing to remember, especially after what he did to her, but the thoughts kept creeping back into his mind. He'd talked to her, never really expecting her to answer him back, not even completely sure she understood him, but he'd told her, anyway.

_"Here's an interesting story. I almost got a job down here in Manufacturing. Guess who the foreman went with? Only an exact duplicate of himself. Nepotism. Ended up giving me the WORST job, tending to all the smelly humans."_

_He'd regretted it almost instantly, tried to backtrack and apologize senselessly. He kicked himself mentally, he shouldn't have said that! A fear gripped his circuits as he imagined her leaving him, absolutely helpless and off his management rail to die alone on the endless catwalk maze inside the facility. _

_If he'd learned one thing working with the scientists, it was that humans did not like to be insulted. Especially by a machine. _

_"The...um... sorry. I wouldn't say smelly. Just attending to the humans."_

_He could see the look of faint hurt on her otherwise stoic face, and felt a twinge of genuine regret. He hadn't been talking about her directly, though he couldn't say she exactly smelled like a bed of roses, with all the sweating and whatnot, but she'd helped him, hadn't she? She didn't really deserve to be flat out insulted…_

_"Sorry. That just slipped out. A bit insensitive. Umm... The smelly humans..."_

But as the sun dipped down below the horizon, he realized that he'd been right. The humans were smelly. And stupid.

They did stupid, useless things like eat and sleep and need. No machine ever needed to eat, so there went a whole fifty percent of the human's efficiency. And Wheatley only needed to recharge once a week, on his charger. Once a year on Aperture tech, so that accounted for about another thirty, forty percent efficiency. Judging by that, he figured that machines were approximately seventy, seventy five percent more efficient than humans. No wonder there were none left.

He hugged his knees as the dark blanketed the sky.

They also weren't as fine tuned as machines. Some couldn't hear, some couldn't see, some _could_ see, but not very well, others couldn't talk… it was mad! His hearing, his _memory_ was perfect. His vision had been twenty-twenty until the engineers had modified it to make him dependant on his glasses. He never malfunctioned like that, not where it's not fixable! For a robot, everything's fixable, but that's not the case with humans, because they're just _inefficient._

And frankly, they weren't that durable, either. He'd worked in the testing chambers long ago, before the relaxation annex, when the scientists didn't know what to do with him. They were always getting shot or stabbed or drowned, and their automatic repair systems took so long, it was ridiculous, and they never really healed properly, either. If they lost anything, it wasn't exactly like they could just weld on another arm, or another head, was it? He dug his heel into the dirt.

The Humans in Cryogenic Relaxation weren't much better either. A few degrees below regulation and out they went, like a light! And, even when he did everything right, you know what happened? They woke up with brain damage! Doing absolutely nothing, they'd gotten brain damage. What kind of engineer had put these humans together, anyway?

Upon activation, the men at Aperture had recited a long list of ways Wheatley could die, but even that list looked like a scribble in comparison to the ways Humans could die: Burning, drowning, bleeding, bullet holes, suffocation, electrocution, stabbing, smashing, falling, vaporization – the list went on and on! Miles! He could take the rest of eternity to write out the ways humans could die – and believe him, he certainly had the time. – and even that wouldn't be enough!

But what bothered him the most was how they could die by doing nothing wrong at all.

He sighed heavily, resting his chin on his knees, feeling that same twinge of guilt that he had the first time he'd called humans smelly. _She_ was a human, after all, and she was _brilliant._ Absolutely _magnificent_. Sure, she needed all the same things the other humans did, but she did it in a different _way._ She never needed, she never did any of the things the other humans did. She ate, she slept, yes, but she _lived_.

He closed his eyes, the line between them and her blurring the more he thought about it. If it disappeared entirely, he would have to admit to himself that she was just another human, but she wasn't, he knew she wasn't, not to him!

His memory was utterly perfect, and as he closed his eyes he could recall her face in perfect detail in his mind's eye. He could hear every inflection of her voice, tender and full of emotion when she said it.

"I love you."

It was so very _human,_ that word. Love. 'A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person,' declared his internal dictionary.

Wheatley ran it through his processors, along with her voice, playing on an endless loop in his head.

She loved him.

She loved him.

She loved him.

So why did she leave him?

He buried his face in his hands, one deep, loud moan escaping his throat. It seemed to resonate around him and hang in the air. He wasn't _programmed_ with something that strong, and it _hurt_, because he wanted to be able to say it back, and he couldn't, now.

Wheatley cared about Chell more than anything. He'd been programmed with that, the ability to care. Especially for the people he watched over, but there was a sense of something greater in it and it had never announced itself as prominently as it did with her. Everything about her had made him happy, which for him was a rare emotion to come by. All these years they'd spent together, she made him inexplicably happy, she'd brought him back from the brink of death, she'd held him and cared and she'd helped him, she'd taken him in, shared her house and her life with him, and she'd made it work. _She'd made it work_. The test subject and the machine, together, against every odd and obstacle this impossible world had to throw at them.

He, never in his artificial life, had wished so hard that he could really, truly _cry._

He couldn't remember ever feeling like this. Save for those unforgettable hours of insanity, he'd always been happy with her, even in those life-or-death moments of their escape. Not even when Space had fallen…

He thought back to how she'd comforted him then, told him how everything was going to be okay.

Where was she to tell him that now, when he needed it more than ever? She wasn't there, but her comforting words, the gentle inflections of her voice still rang loudly in his ears.

He remembered Space's small body lying, broken and charred, in the deep hole they'd dug into the soft earth.

He stood shakily and looked up at the moon, round and glowing and seemingly closer than ever, as if it were trying to come down and snuff him out. Its light blanketed the world and he staggered home half-blind by his own disjointed grief. He _was_ a part of the surface, now. He had been for years, without even knowing it, and he knew what he was going to do.

His memory was utterly perfect, and he'd keep his word from so very long ago.

He would stay, and the tiny mound of dirt in her backyard would stay there forever. He'd make sure of it.

He loved her.


	41. Intermission: Sleep

Wheatley fell to the floor with a thud, groaning softly as his arm twisted uncomfortably beneath him. He blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings. How'd he get back in the house? Where were the wheat stalks, and the night sky? It was midday out, what had happened? He picked himself up and gazed around the living room, trying to figure out how he'd been magically transported from the old house to _here_. Where was here, come to think of it? Certainly he lived here – but the house in the wheat field, he lived there with Chell…

His gaze traveled around the room as he spun slowly, trying to recollect what had happened. The line of events just didn't make sense… His plug lay on the couch, half wedged between two cushions, poking out at an odd angle.

_Oh._

The realization left his hard drive somewhere at his feet. It'd been one of those _dreams_. He'd had to charge and he'd had to plug_ himself _in because—

He found that he was absently staring out the back window. He tore his eyes from the tree in the back and the sleek white stone that lay under the meager shade it offered, physically turning his body so there wasn't the slightest chance of looking at it. He wrapped his arms around himself and sat back on the couch, reaching for the plug. He backtracked, correcting himself.

He did not live in the house in the wheat. He lived here, in the suburbs of the scavenging city. It was not night time, there were no stars. It was the middle of the day, one in the afternoon, by the looks of it. He did not live with Chell, he lived alone.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, squeezing the lead between his fingers. It was okay. Everything was okay. He checked his internal clock; thirteen days had gone by since he'd plugged in for the night. It caused an uncomfortable feeling in his circuitry that felt like he'd been cased with mercury, but he stood and tried to shake it off.

He worried at his bottom lip as he paced back and forth through the house, pointedly avoiding her room, the door to which was still closed from her day. He paused in front of it every so often, having to remind himself that she wouldn't be there if he opened the door before rushing down the hallway, not to return for the space of an hour, or until his blind optimism and his programming got the better of him and he found himself meandering down the hall, fingers itching towards the doorknob. He refused to open the door, knowing that nothing but bitter disappointment and a fresh wave of sadness would greet him.

He found himself in the living room some hours later; the sun was setting over the horizon, painting the sky the familiar pink and gold they used to watch together, waiting for the stars to grace the sky. He looked away. He didn't want to watch anymore, he didn't want to remember. He wanted everything back. Things had been so _good_ between them, everything had been perfect. Why did it all have to disappear?

That was his luck. Having her find him, having her forgive him, it was too much, and he should have known it. When she offered to share her home and her life with him, all those years they spent together, perfectly happy – happier than he'd ever remembered being – he should have known it was only so that it could be taken away later. That was his luck.

He was alone, possibly more now than he'd been at the facility. It had certainly hurt less then. He hadn't known what it was to have someone who cared. He hadn't had her.

He rose from the couch and moved directly across to the bookshelf, plucking Machiavelli from the wooden shelves, most of which were covered in a fine layer of dust. He'd been in sleep mode for almost two weeks. He supposed he should at least try to keep the house. For her, if nothing else. He doubted that she would have liked to see her home, everything she'd worked towards in twenty years, fall to shambles around him as he slept, only waking every so often when the plug accidentally came loose. He couldn't sleep forever, he knew that, but it was a tempting notion. There were plenty of memories he could revisit. Granted, not all of them were pleasant, but they were all better than the reality of things, merely because they included Chell.

He sat back with a plop, cracking open the book to where the little gold ribbon had marked his place. His eyes skimmed the pages quickly – he'd become a voracious reader since Chell had taught him. A dark part told him it was just another was to prove to himself that he wasn't a moron, but he genuinely enjoyed reading, once all the hurdles were conquered and he'd gotten a proper dictionary.

For a few moments, the only noise in the house was the rustling of his pages before even that stopped. He went still, completely unmoving and one might think he'd shut down if it weren't for the rapid whirring of his fans. His head snapped up and he looked out the window, right at her grave and he forced himself to keep eye contact with it no matter how much he wanted to look back to his book.

Wheatley stood quickly, uncertainly, convinced that his programming was acting up again because this was the dumbest idea he'd had in a long time. The glass of the back door slid open and he kept going until there was soft grass beneath his feet, beneath his palm, beneath the seat of his pants as he sat, pressing his spine into the bark of the tree, his hard drive uncomfortable in his chest, and there was that new, alarming sensation of not being able to cry. He bit down hard on his lip and opened the book in his lap, staring down at it.

The world was quiet, the absence of noise bothering him, making his fingers twitch restlessly. Not even the birds sang. Everything was waiting for him to speak first. He looked up slowly and swallowed hard. His voice came out quiet and strained. "I… I just thought I'd come out here and… read. Just read. Thought maybe you'd like some company. You must be… lonely." He said, bringing his knees to his chest, unsteady fingers intertwining around them as he rested his chin at the peak. The book closed, temporarily forgotten. He felt his voice chip give a jump with an inexplicable tension. "I know I am."

* * *

><p><strong>Hello everyone! First off I'd like to thank everyone for the immense amount of interest in this story - really am impromptu project if anything! It's been great hearing everyone's reactions and really plunging head first into the fandom. I really am flattered that you lot enjoyed this, and took it all in good strides when things turned ugly for Chell and Wheatley. That being said, I've taken up ANOTHER project that you may or may not know about, depending on who you are. I've got a few people to thank for it, ideas and the such, but I can't quite put out my acknowledgement page yet. As the lovely River Song would say, "Spoilers!" <strong>

**Just consider this a head's up, letting you know to keep an eye out for After Aperture: Return. **

**Cheers,**

**Tib **


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